‘But I am!’ he replied. ‘They call me dominie, the first since Hauthius. What higher honour could I ask for?’
‘An honour granted because of your academic achievements, old friend, not for your courage. There ought to be a statue of you down there, gleaming golden in the morning sun. Or they should rename the Square of Sorrows to something more fitting in your honour.’
‘Ah, Stella, I’m just grateful they tolerate me. Now, speaking of places I have been, I have come to take you to the Hall of Scrolls. I have wrung permission from the council for you to spend a daily hour in the scriptorium, under my supervision. Are you ready to accompany me?’ His question encompassed both Stella and Ena.
‘And on the way,’ he added, ‘you can think of a new name for the Square of Sorrows. “Phemanderac’s Folly” perhaps?’
Stella laughed, but her heart hurt for this gentle giant of a man, whose people would never acknowledge they owed their lives to him.
The Hall of Scrolls was a large building of a style Stella had never before seen. A central golden dome topped a square dressed stone structure at least as high as Instruere’s Hall of Meeting. The dome was inscribed with a filigree pattern that emphasised its fragility; it seemed to glow from within. Arched stained-glass windows punctuated the structure upon which it sat. A sheer wall, half the height of the main structure, wrapped itself around the hall itself, and the section visible to Stella was studded with three arched windows, much larger than those of the main hall. Each depicted a different symbol: open hand, flaming arrow, breaking wave. In the right of centre of this wall was a large open arch, the main entrance.
The main feature of the magnificent building’s exterior, however, were the twin slender towers stretching into the sky. Octagonal in shape, they were crowned with their own domes, under which nestled small chambers, open to the air through more arched windows.
Stella immediately appreciated what she saw: the progenitor of the home in which she had lived for the last seventy years. The towers took her back to the day Leith died, in a tower modelled on these—or, more accurately, she supposed, modelled on the building, now destroyed, that had also served as inspiration for the edifice before her.
A sudden image of Leith, his face alight in the last throes of life, filled her mind. His parting words to her; his final breath a warning to flee the Halites who sought her conversion or death for her role as the Destroyer’s Consort. The way his hand seemed to deflate. The change from human to shell.
The shock of it hit her as she stared at the towers above. She fell to her knees, dragging Ena unheeded to the ground. ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, oh.’
A warm hand rested on the back of her head, but Phemanderac said nothing. He no doubt understood what ailed her, but Ena did not.
‘I hurt my knee,’ the girl said, reproach in her voice. ‘Look, it’s bleeding.’
‘Oh,’ said Stella, dashing tears from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ She took a small piece of linen from her tunic and patted down the small graze on the girl’s knee.
‘Be careful, Stella,’ Phemanderac said. ‘Do not dwell overmuch on the past. Memories have more power here than in the outside world.’ She wanted to pursue this cryptic comment, but he drew her to her feet. ‘Let us go inside. There are people looking at us, wondering what we are doing. I care nothing for their regard, but I am conscious of time passing. If we do not use the time we have been given, we may not be allowed to return.’
Stella allowed the two Dhaurians to guide her into the hall. She paid no attention to the mosaics covering the walls on either side of the corridor, immersed in her own thoughts. She had named Phemanderac a hero, but had forgotten Leith. Yes, he had been heralded in the days after the war, but his role in the victory over the Bhrudwans had been distorted by the Halites. He had, according to them, come close to losing the war, and only the selfless sacrifice by his older brother, Hal—after whom the Halites were named—had saved them all. It had been within Leith’s power as King of Faltha to suppress this story, but he had not. So now Hal was a religion and Leith was dead.
And Stella, infected with the blood of the Undying Man, itself corrupted by disobedience, could never die.
How, then, could she live?
That was the reason she had come here. In the golden age before the rebellion against the Most High, the First Men lived in this valley and were sustained by the Fountain. The waters of this fountain were forbidden anyone to drink, but—unbeknown to those who lived there—the spray had sustained them all, greatly elongating their lives. Some among them, according to the scrolls in Instruere’s archives, lived many hundreds of years. Surely somewhere in this Hall of Scrolls would be a text telling her how the longest-lived of these long-lived men, envied by the ignorant Halites, coped while their friends and lovers died around them.
If she couldn’t find help here, there was only one other place she could go—to the stronghold of the Undying Man himself, to Andratan, to ask the only other immortal in the world.
She told herself she hoped to find the answers here, but something deep and dark within her counselled her not to look too hard.
Phemanderac led her and Ena down a broad stair to a large oaken door. On the door was a sign in an ancient language, the letters all flourishes and points. ‘School of the prophets,’ Phemanderac whispered in her ear. An attendant opened the door for them, then lit glass lanterns for them before closing it. The small chamber in which Stella found herself was dark, save the pale light from their lanterns.
‘Why are we in this room?’ she asked Phemanderac.
‘We allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness. The scriptorium is built to keep out natural light, as such light damages the parchment. There is another door before us. When our eyes have adjusted, this door will be opened and we will join the other scholars in the scriptorium.
‘Another thing,’ he added. ‘You won’t be able to read the scrolls. The Falthan common tongue grew from the language of the First Men, but changed in the growing. However, I can interpret them for you.’ He sighed. ‘Or, at least, I could have, before my eyesight began to fail. Ena here could read most of what you need, or you could hire one of the Saiwan clansmen to read for you.’
‘Won’t the scrolls be too fragile to read?’ Stella asked. ‘They are thousands of years old, after all.’
Beside her, Ena giggled in the darkness.
‘Oh, you won’t be using the originals,’ Phemanderac said gently. ‘You will be reading a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy. The few surviving original scrolls cannot be handled, lest the oils and acids in your fingertips contaminate the parchment. I could perhaps arrange for you to see one of the originals, should you wish,’ he added, though he sounded dubious.
‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’
The inner door opened onto a world of murmuring and flickering lights. Stella followed Phemanderac to a small cubicle, then waited while he procured three extra seats. ‘Shall I arrange for a reader?’ he asked when he returned. ‘I will pay the hire myself, as you are a guest.’
‘Is the cost substantial?’ Stella asked.
Phemanderac laughed. ‘I am accounted a rich man here. It would be my pleasure. I mean that truly: to hear the words of the old scrolls read once again will ease my heart.’
He wandered off, and Stella sat down, Ena at her side. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she whispered to the girl. ‘This must be boring for you.’
The girl giggled again. ‘What could be more interesting than learning about the great ones who went before us?’
Stella searched for irony in the voice, but could hear none. ‘You are different from the children in my land,’ she said.
‘Of course!’ Ena said happily. ‘We are from Dhauria, the remnant of the First Men, descended from those who remained faithful to the Most High when Kannwar rebelled against him. We are not like ordinary people.’
A speech, Stella considered, probably learned off by hear
t by all Dhaurian youngsters. She thought of trying to prick this child’s veneer of confidence, then rejected the idea as shameful.
Two lights bobbed towards them. Phemanderac led a young woman, presumably the scholar who would read for Stella. ‘This is Moralye,’ he said, and she smiled. She really is a pretty thing, Stella thought, ideally suited to functioning in the scriptorium, with her large, luminous eyes and small stature.
‘Your clan is responsible for the maintenance and preservation of the scrolls, Moralye?’ she asked. ‘And while you train yourself in the skills necessary, you earn money for your clan?’
The woman smiled. ‘I welcome you to the scriptorium of Dhauria, Stella Pellwen,’ she said, speaking quickly. ‘You are every bit as perceptive as the dominie claimed. It will be a pleasure to work with you.’
Surprised by the use of her full name, Stella drew breath to frame a reply, but Moralye continued.
‘I have selected a number of scrolls in accordance with Phemanderac’s request, and members of the Saiwan clan are searching their indexes for others. They will bring these to us in due course.’
She drew breath. Her obvious excitement made Stella smile. ‘Some of the scrolls deal with the Undying Man,’ the girl warned. ‘Are you comfortable with this?’
‘I am,’ Stella said. ‘To me, there has always been a question surrounding his rebellion. Did events unfold exactly as the scrolls say?’ Her teeth tingled as she asked the question. Was there really any doubt? The likely truth was the scrolls probably obscured the worst of his excesses.
Moralye smiled, no doubt approving of Stella’s spirit of enquiry. ‘Until the remainder of the scrolls are brought to us, allow me to begin reading.’ The woman’s eyes danced in the lamplight.
‘Very well, then—’
Moralye had seated herself even before Stella could finish her comment.
‘This is from the memoirs of Mannimaritseth, the longest-lived of the First Men,’ she began. ‘It is said he lived eight hundred years in the Vale of Youth before the Most High translated him. He writes about his long life as follows:
‘“A new day is to me yet another opportunity to grapple with the depth of corruption in my own spirit. I seek the purification of the Most High’s holy fire, yet constantly fall short. My days are thus a burden, for I long for the day when my Lord decides I am hale enough to be separated from the cord that binds me to this black earth.”’
‘Cheerful fellow,’ Stella sighed. So much like her own experience. Eight hundred years. How did he remain sane?
Perhaps he didn’t, came a voice into her mind, a voice from somewhere close by. Stella’s head jerked up, but of course she couldn’t see anything in the darkened chamber.
‘Mistress?’ Moralye asked. ‘May I continue?’
‘Please.’
‘“I besought the counsel of Amara, the oldest among us, and she averred the importance of forgetting. A balance is required between cherishing one’s memories, for memories are the only thing that connect you to who you are, and putting them aside so their accumulation does not drown you.”’
She nodded. Yes. I cannot forget, therefore I drown.
At least you have not had others at work trying to alter your past, said the voice in her mind. Definitely not her imagination. It seemed to come from the place occasionally used by the Undying Man to spy on her; that tenuous link between them that let her know how he was feeling. The blood-link. Once they begin their work, you cannot be sure what it is you are trying to forget, the voice went on.
Oh? Anger blazed within her at the self-pitying words. Why would people not want to remake their memories of such as you? And do you not know of the years I have had to endure my history being remade? I am now known as the Destroyer’s Consort. No one cares to know of the times I resisted you, and of the pain it brought me. They only remember me as your cat’s-paw, your obedient servant paraded in front of them on the day you came to sign the Declaration that would have given you lordship of Faltha. They despise me for it, and I have had to flee for my life.
I am as despised and misunderstood as you, came the reply.
Stella laughed out loud, causing Moralye to startle and interrupting her recitation. Despised, yes. Misunderstood, I think not. I understand you perfectly well.
Do you? You do not.
A man leaned into the cubicle and cleared his throat, attracting the young Dhaurian scholar’s attention. ‘Excuse me, Moralye, one of those studying in the scriptorium overheard me discussing your requirements with Palanget. He handed me this scroll and asked you to read it to the one who engaged you.’ He extended his hand, in which nestled a small scroll.
‘My lady?’ Moralye asked Stella.
Her whole body chilled. She had no idea what this scroll may be, but she knew whose hand—no, definitely the wrong phrase. She knew who had given this to Moralye’s associate.
‘Yes,’ she said, swallowing a sudden obstruction in her throat. He’s here, in this room.
Moralye unrolled the scroll and leaned forward. Beside Stella, Ena kicked her heels against the wall of the cubicle behind her. Phemanderac, quiet until now, put his hand on the arm of the man who had delivered the scroll. ‘Stay a moment,’ he said.
Stella’s palms began to moisten as she waited.
‘Phyrgia, would you fetch the man who gave you this scroll?’ Moralye said, licking her lips as the man hurried away, his lamp flickering in the near-darkness. ‘I want to know where he found it. I’m curious, you see,’ she added, turning to Stella, ‘because I’ve never seen it before. Phemanderac?’
‘Nor I,’ said the old man, leaning over for a closer look. ‘Though I can barely see it now.’
‘You’ll want to read this,’ the young scholar said, her voice thick.
‘Please,’ Stella said. ‘Could someone read it to me?’
‘Yes, read it to us,’ Phemanderac echoed.
CHAPTER 7
APOLOGY FOR A REBELLION
THE SENSE OF SOMEONE in her head had left Stella for the moment, though she had no doubt it would return if she summoned it. Not for a moment did she think the voice was an invention of her own mind. She knew him, knew the taint of him, the canker of his words.
‘“The Testimony of Kannwar of Dona Mihst,”’ Moralye began, and at her words Phemanderac gripped the table with both hands, his knuckles whitening. Stella felt herself becoming dizzy as her suspicions crystallised into fact. The woman made to continue, but a commotion at the door brought her up short.
‘Dominie,’ said the doorkeeper, striding quickly towards their cubicle, ‘I have an outsider here claiming the right of admittance, invoking your name as passage. Do I let him in?’
‘His name?’ Phemanderac could barely take his eyes from the parchment spread out before him.
‘Conal, he names himself.’
Conal? For a wild moment Stella speculated: He is a Halite, he says he has feelings for me, he apparently exercised superhuman power to rescue me from the Lord of Fear. But he is a man of petty vanity. Would such a man hide one so proud as the Undying Man? And how would the Undying Man have found a haven in his mind? Conal has been nowhere near Andratan.
‘Stella,’ a petulant voice called from the half-open door, loud enough to disturb the atmosphere of the room. ‘Why did you not tell me you were going to the scriptorium? Why would you leave me behind? We have an agreement, my queen!’ he said reproachfully.
‘Let him approach,’ she murmured reluctantly. Phemanderac nodded to the doorkeeper, who went and fetched the annoying fool priest. Or the consummate actor?
‘My queen, I—’
‘Hush,’ she commanded him. ‘Give me your hand.’
His eyes widened, but he extended a hand nonetheless. Her hand closed on his. Flesh, nothing more—or less.
‘Very well,’ she said, releasing him. ‘Do not ask me what that was about. Now, Conal, you have interrupted matters of great importance. Sit opposite me and do not say a single word unless invited to. Agre
e to these terms or suffer yourself to be led away from this place. Are you my servant in this matter?’
Phrased in such a way, and by such as Stella, no Falthan citizen could refuse and still maintain their willingness to serve the Crown. Conal assented gracelessly, his face a picture of frustrated curiosity, and took his seat.
Everyone in the crowded cubicle took a deep breath at the same moment, and all eyes turned to Moralye.
‘“The Testimony of Kannwar of Dona Mihst,”’ she repeated. ‘“A Repudiation of the Lies of the First Men and an Apology for Rebellion. Written by my hand, Fourteenth of Ninemonth, two hundred and eighty-three years after the Fall of Dona Mihst. Placed in the new-built scriptorium of Dhauria by my hand six years thereafter.”’
Silence.
Broken by Phemanderac. ‘The parchment looks and feels authentic. We haven’t used this kind of parchment for fifteen hundred years or more. We use a different process of manufacture now, and I doubt anyone could recreate the substance before us. It has aged, but has not deteriorated to the extent one would expect. As for the script, the letters are in a well-practised hand, but there are hints of awkwardness, as though the hand is injured—or is not the writer’s natural hand. Perhaps I see these hints because I am looking for them. Any more than this, I cannot say, as my eyes betray me.’
‘I concur,’ Moralye said. ‘I will have my clansmen subject this scroll to the most rigorous investigation, including chemic analysis. I do not understand how a scroll over seventeen hundred years old has survived intact even in this beneficent environment, nor how it lay undetected for that long. I am willing to swear on any scroll you name that such a thing cannot be.’
‘If you swear it, I believe it,’ the old scholar answered. ‘You are the brightest light for a thousand years, and this is your domain. Perhaps we ought to leave further speculation until after we have read its message.’
Stella heard the young man beside her take a deep breath, the sort one takes before launching forth. ‘No, Conal, not a word,’ she said. ‘No matter how insightful or well intentioned you think it is. We are not the experts here.’
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