by Greg Keyes
“Well, there's always Elyoner. I'm sure she'll pay us a visit. And I'll see about having your horse Faster brought along. How would you like that?”
“Oh, Fastia, would you?”
“I'll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, pack. I'll see you soon.”
“Very well.”
“And, Anne?”
“Yes, Fastia?”
“I do love you, you know. You are my little sister. I know sometimes you think—” She frowned, and reddened slightly. “Anyway.” Her hands fluttered briefly, then settled. “Pack,” she said.
When Fastia was gone, Austra came padding into the room.
“You heard?” Anne asked.
“Yes.”
“What a nuisance. I'm supposed to meet Roderick tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to get word to him?” Austra asked, a little trepidantly.
“Yes,” Anne murmured. “Yes. Tell him I'll meet him tonight, instead. At the midnight bell, in the crypt of my ancestors.”
“Anne, that's a very bad idea.”
“I may not see him for months. I will see him before I go.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SCRIFTI
THE STING OF A SLAP brought Stephen out of his dream.
He was actually grateful to the pain, for it released him from terror, a phantasmic netherworld of horned beastmen, eviscerated women and children, feathered beasts, and leering faces that formed and dissipated like clouds, variously his kidnappers, Aspar White, and Brother Desmond.
He wasn't grateful for long. In his sleep, blood had glued his shift to his back, and in places to the wooden bench he slept on. The movements of waking pulled ropes of pain tight about his back and limbs.
“There's a good lad,” the brother bending over him said as Stephen sat up. “Up with you.” He slapped Stephen on the back, inciting a gasp of shock and tears of pain.
“Leave him be,” a softer voice said. “Desmond and his bunch aren't around now.”
“I don't know that,” the first fellow muttered. He was a short man, barrel-chested with skinny arms, red-haired and copiously freckled. “For all I know, you're in with 'em. All I know is, it never hurts to treat the new ones rough. It can hurt to go soft on 'em.” He thumped Stephen's back again, though not as hard this time.
But it was too much. Stephen bounced up from the sleeping board, towering a good head over his antagonist. “Stay back from me,” he warned. “Don't touch me again.”
The redhead gave two steps, but he didn't look terribly concerned.
“What's your name, fellow?” That was the other man, a gangly young fellow with big ears and an easy smile.
“Stephen Darige.”
“I'm Brother Alprin, and the little one there is Brother Ehan.”
“Don't call me the ‘little one,’ ” the redhead warned.
“Gozh margens ezwes, mehelz brodar Ehan,” Stephen said.
“Eh?” Brother Ehan exclaimed. “That's Herilanzer! How is it you speak my language?”
“I don't. Only a few words.”
“How did you guess he was Herilanzer?” Brother Alprin asked.
“His name. His accent. I'm good at that sort of thing.” And it's been getting me in trouble, up until now. I should have kept my mouth shut.
But Ehan grinned. “Well, that beats anything I've heard lately. Generally speaking, no one understands Herilanzer but Herilanzers. No one even tries. What's the point?”
Stephen shrugged. “Maybe someday I'll go to Herilanz.”
“That's even funnier,” Ehan said. “You'd last about half a bell in my homeland. If the frost didn't kill you, the first child to come along would.”
Stephen mused that if Brother Ehan was a typical Herilanzer adult, the children must be knee-high at best, but decided against saying any such thing. He already hurt too much. He nodded instead. “Maybe,” he conceded.
He glanced around the dormitory—a large room illuminated by high window slits. It was very spare—fifty wooden benches each just wide enough to sleep on, and a small open box at the end of each bench for possessions. He noticed his was empty.
“My things! My books, my charcoal—my rubbings! Where are they?”
“One of Desmond's boys took them. If you're lucky, and behave well, you'll get them back.”
“Does—I mean, the fratrex—”
“Don't even start thinking that way,” Alprin cautioned. “The only way around Desmond and his lot is to cooperate, thank them, and hope they eventually move on to someone else. Whether the fratrex knows about all of this, I can't say. That's a moot point. If you go to him—or to anyone—that's a very bad mistake.”
“But how can he—how can they just—just do these things?”
Brother Ehan slapped him on the back again, and Stephen nearly bit his own tongue in half.
“You idiot!” Ehan hissed. “Do you know me? Or Brother Alprin? You just met us! We could be the worst of the lot! And if we were, right now you would, by the saints of storm and blood, be regretting it, oh, terribly you would. You want to survive here? Listen, learn—don't talk until you know the other fellow.”
“Aren't you breaking your own rule? You don't know me either.”
“I know you're new. That's enough.”
“He's right,” Alprin said. “And don't expect any kindness from us—or anyone—if there's the least chance anyone is watching. There are rules concerning new people. Even I won't break them, often.”
“So you've been warned,” Ehan grunted. “That's more than I meant to do, and it's the last you'll get. Trust no one.” He scratched his chin. “Oh, and the fratrex wanted you in the scriftorium a quarter bell ago. Something about ‘important translations.’ ”
“Saints!” Stephen said. “But my things—”
“Forget them,” Alprin said. “Really. You're sworn to poverty anyway.”
“But my things weren't riches. They were things I need for my work.”
“You have the whole scriftorium,” Ehan said. “What else could you need?”
“My notes.”
“Too bad.” Brother Ehan turned to Brother Alprin. “It's time we left. We've risked our necks enough for one day, and I've got work to do.”
“Thank you,” Stephen said. “Eh Danka 'zwes.”
Ehan laughed as he left. “Speaking Herilanzer,” he exclaimed. “What next?”
What indeed? Stephen thought. Back at Tor Scath, he thought things had gotten as bad as they could. Now he found he was already nostalgic for those days.
But the scriftorium awaited, and that thought still brought excitement, though a much warier excitement than he had known the day before.
“Stiff from carrying that wood, eh?” the fratrex asked, peering down his nose.
“Very stiff, Reverend,” Stephen replied. He wasn't fooling himself. Despite choosing his words carefully, he'd just told his superior a lie. He didn't like it, but until he understood more about the monastery and its inhabitants, he was determined to take the ominous advice of Brothers Alprin and Ehan.
The fratrex looked sympathetic. “Well, this evening you can take the meal out to the watchposts. The walk will loosen you up.”
“Thank you, Fratrex.”
“No need for that. Now, my boy, did you find anything of interest yesterday? I'm sure you did.”
I found rotten apples in the church bin, Stephen thought sourly.
“I found an early copy of the Amena Tirson,” he said.
The fratrex nodded approvingly. “Ah, yes, the old geography. We have the original.”
“I think that must have been what I found. Were—were the copies made here?”
The fratrex scratched his chin and cocked his head. “It's been here for the last two centuries, so I would guess that any copy you've seen elsewhere came from here. Why? Did you find an error?”
“Not exactly. What I—”
“Well then! Of course not. We have the best copyists in the world.
” He winked at Stephen. “And the most competent translators, eh? Now, do you want to see what I brought you here to show you?”
“Very much, Fratrex Pell,” Stephen said.
The old man thumped a cedar box. “It's right here.”
The box was much like the one that had held the Amena Tirson, but larger. This box looked new—but when the old man slid off the lid, what was inside did not.
“Lead sheets,” Stephen murmured, almost to himself. “A holy text.”
“So one would think. But see the date? This predates the Hegemony—and the spread of the church in this area—by two hundred years.”
“True,” Stephen agreed. “But scriving on lead was known to have significance even before the church codified its use. Messages to the dead, for instance, were written that way, in archaic Vitellian, before the Sacaratum and the first church.”
“Messages to the dead, yes,” the fratrex acknowledged. “According to our earliest doctrines, the spirits of the departed are best able to read from lead. But before the church, those messages were small things—curses and other requests, just as some still write today. It was only after the second reform that texts dedicated to the saints were written in this fashion, since the saints are served by the departed.
“But here, long before the second reform—well, see for yourself.”
Stephen moved closer, for a better look, and his heart thumped faster. The pain in his back didn't go away, but for an instant he nearly forgot about it. “It's an entire text,” he said. “A book, just like the sacred writings of the church.”
“And do you know the language?”
“May I hold it?”
“Of course.”
Stephen lifted out the first heavy leaf. When his fingers touched it, it almost seemed as if he could taste the lead in his mouth, and his fingers trembled slightly.
Who had scrived this? What had the author been feeling, when he set down this first page? The immensity of time swept over Stephen like a wave tumbling him in the ocean— delightful and a little frightening. He squinted at the small figures.
“There is a great deal of patination,” he murmured, brushing at the white film that coated it. “Where was this found?”
“In the old chapel of Saint Donwys, in the Marches of Hume, or so I'm told.”
“They didn't take very good care of it,” Stephen noticed. “It's been kept damp.” He frowned. “And it almost looks— could it have ever been buried?”
“I doubt that,” the fratrex said. “In any case, we have it now, and will take proper care of it. Indeed, that's another reason we requested a brother of your qualifications. To be honest, I would have preferred someone higher in the order than a novice, but I'm sure you'll prove yourself worthy of the church's trust.”
“I will strive to, Reverend.”
“Now. What can you tell me of it? It's Vadhiian, that much even I can discern, but—”
“With greatest respect, Reverend,” Stephen said, very cautiously, remembering his earlier lesson in humility. “At first glance, I'm not altogether certain that's the case.”
“Oh?”
“It's similar, to be sure, but …” He stared at the first line, frowning.
“It's the Vadhiian characters, yes?” the fratrex asked.
“Yes. But look at this line. It looks like Dhyvhubh khamy, ‘this addressed to the gods.’ In Vadhiian, that ought to be Kanmi udhe dhivhi. You see? Vadhiian had lost the case endings from ancient Croatani. I think this is an unknown dialect— perhaps a very old form of Vadhiian.”
“Indeed? How old? The date tells us it was written during the reign of the Black Jester. The language of his empire was Vadhiian.”
“The text may have been copied. See here, below the date?”
“I see the letter Q, at least if I understand the scrift.”
“It is Q,” Stephen affirmed. “The Black Jester reigned for the most part of a century. During the early years of his rule, it became customary for a scrive or translator to put his mark below the date.” He smiled grimly. “The Jester wanted to know who to punish if anything was copied incorrectly. After his defeat, of course, the Hegemony established itself, and the church along with it, and practices were brought into line with church procedure.”
“You think this is a copy of something earlier, then?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps this was some sort of literary dialect— much as we use Vitellian and Croatani for our sacred texts.”
The fratrex nodded. “Here I acknowledge my limits. It may be as you say.”
“Or it may not,” Stephen said hastily. “After all, I based that on just a few words. But with some study, I can develop a more confident opinion.”
“And how long until you've translated the whole thing?”
“I can't say with certainty, Reverend. If it is an unknown dialect, it could be troublesome.”
“Yes. Could you do it in a nineday?”
“Reverend?” Dismayed, Stephen tried to keep the strain from his voice. “I can try. Is it that important?”
The reverend frowned. “To me? No. But consider it a test, a first devotion. Do this in the time I've allotted, and you may well walk the fanes earlier than any other novice.”
Mention of the fanes brought Stephen's pain back to mind. What would Brother Desmond say to that?
“Reverend, I desire no special treatment. Of course I will translate with alacrity. It's what you brought me here for, and I will not disappoint you.”
“I don't expect you to.” Then Fratrex Pell's voice sharpened. “Nor do I expect you to question my judgment. If I declare you are ready to walk the fanes, it will be because you are. Do you understand, yes? Special treatment does not enter into it.
“We've been banging our heads against this scrift for months, and in a count of one hundred you've already unraveled one of its mysteries. That is a clear sign from the saints. Your success or failure in the next nineday will also be a clear sign, one way or another. You see?”
“One way or another, Reverend?”
“Exactly.” The fratrex patted him firmly on the shoulder, sending darts of agony shooting through Stephen's body. “My, you are tender,” he said. “Well, I'll leave you to it. Saints be with you.”
“And with you, Reverend,” Stephen replied.
When the fratrex was gone, his words still hung in the air, as certain in form as if scrived in lead, and as uncertain as the content of the manuscrift.
One way or another. If Stephen succeeded, he would walk the fanes and become an initiate, something that might otherwise take a year or more. Of course, then Desmond Spendlove would probably beat him to death.
But what if he failed? What would the saints be telling the fratrex then?
But no, one thing was certain—no one had read these ancient words in more than a thousand years. Whatever might come, whatever he was risking, he would do it.
He found paper and charcoal for tracing, a brush for cleaning the characters, and mixed some ink.
A bell later he had forgotten the fratrex, Desmond Spendlove, and all threats of punishment and pain, as ancient thoughts slowly, tentatively revealed themselves.
The dialect was, indeed, unknown. The form of the words was much like Vadhiian, but the way those words were put together, and the grammar that gave them sense, were older, more akin to the tongues of the elder Cavarum.
The vespers bell found him still hunched over the manuscrift, with translated lines scribbled on the paper next to it. As he progressed, he had crossed out preliminary guesses and replaced them with more certain ones. Sitting straight up, he cracked his neck and rubbed his eyes, then went back through his notes.
He had begun to gather the pieces of the puzzle—the conjugation of this and that verb, the relation of subject to object—but hadn't tried to put it all together. So, on a clean sheet, he began a running translation. It read:
This addressed to the gods.
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of
Ukel Kradh dhe'Uvh (a title of the Black Jester, meaning “Proud Heart of Fear,” written in the Vadhiian dialect, unlike the rest of the document—S.D.) these words were scrived. Behold them, for they are terrible. They are for your eyes, Great Lord, and for none other. Lord of the Sedoi, here is told of the (noybhubh: fanes? altars? temples?) belonging to the (zhedunmara: damned gods? unsacred demons?). Here is told of the (vath thadhathun: sedos-paths? faneways?) of the Mother-Devouring, of the Sacred Desire, of the Madman Lord, of the Lightning-Twisted-Inside, of their kith and clan. Here is told how to entertain them. (Uwdathez: Cursed?) is any other who gazes upon these words. And (cursed?) is he who writes this.
A frost touched Stephen's spine. What in the name of the saints did he have here? He had never seen an ancient text even remotely like this.
Of course, little had survived from the era of the Warlock Wars. Much of what had been written then was profane and evil, and had been destroyed by the church.
If this was such a text, how had it slipped by? Simply because no one could read it? That was stupid. When the Hegemony brought peace to the north, they had with them some of the greatest scholars in the ancient world. Besides, this language would have been close enough to dialects of the time that any scholar back then should have been able to accomplish with ease what Stephen was now doing with difficulty— translate it by reference to sister languages.
Maybe this one had been hidden or, as Stephen suspected, buried. Maybe some peasant had dug it up in his field and brought it to the brothers at Saint Donwys, who assumed it was a sacred church text, and put it in their scriftorium.
Wherever it had come from, Stephen was virtually certain that it ought not to exist. Just as certainly, when the church learned what it was, it would be destroyed.
He should tell Fratrex Pell all this now. He should go no further.
“Brother?”
Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. A monk he did not know was standing only a few feet away.
“I'm sorry?” Stephen said.
“Fratrex Pell asked you to deliver the evening meal to the watchtowers.”
“Oh! Of course.”
“Shall I replace that?” The brother waved at the scrift.