“My mother never insulted anyone unless she had good reason. What did you say to provoke her?”
He paused for only a heartbeat, but I noted with satisfaction that his smile faded.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Why did Dekarta have my mother killed?”
“The only person who could answer that question is Dekarta. Do you plan to talk to him?”
Eventually, I would. But two could play the game of answering a question with a question. “Why did she come here, that last night? The night Dekarta finally realized she wasn’t coming back?”
I had expected the surprise in Viraine’s face. What I had not expected was the cold fury that followed swiftly on its heels.
“Who have you been talking to? The servants? Sieh?”
Sometimes the truth can throw an opponent off-balance. “Nahadoth.”
He flinched, and then his eyes narrowed. “I see. He’ll kill you, you know. That’s his favorite pastime, to toy with any Arameri foolish enough to try and tame him.”
“Scimina—”
“—has no intention of taming him. The more monstrous he becomes, the happier she is. He spread the last fool who fell in love with him all over the centeryard, I hear.”
I remembered Nahadoth’s lips on my throat and fought to suppress a shudder, only half-succeeding. Death as a consequence of lying with a god wasn’t something I had considered, but it did not surprise me. A mortal man’s strength had limits. He spent himself and slept. He could be a good lover, but even his best skills were only guesswork—for every caress that sent a woman’s head into the clouds, he might try ten that brought her back to earth.
Nahadoth would bring me into the clouds and keep me there. He would drag me further, into the cold airless dark that was his true domain. And if I suffocated there, if my flesh burst or my mind broke… well. Viraine was right; I’d have only myself to blame.
I gave Viraine a rueful smile, letting him see my very real fear. “Yes, Nahadoth probably will kill me—if you Arameri don’t beat him to it. If that troubles you, you could always help me by answering my questions.”
Viraine fell silent for a long moment, his thoughts unfathomable behind the mask of his face. Finally he surprised me again, rising from his workbench and going to one of the enormous windows. From this one we could see the whole of the city and the mountains beyond.
“I can’t say I remember the night well,” he said. “It was twenty years ago. I had only just come to Sky then, newly posted by the Scriveners’ College.”
“Please tell me all you can recall,” I said.
Scriveners learn several mortal tongues as children, before they begin learning the gods’ language. This helps them understand the flexibility of language and of the mind itself, for there are many concepts that exist in some languages that cannot even be approximated in others. This is how the gods’ tongue works; it allows the conceptualization of the impossible. And this is why the best scriveners can never be trusted.
“It was raining that night. I remember because rain doesn’t often touch Sky; the heaviest clouds usually drop below us. But Kinneth got soaked just between her carriage and the entrance. There was a trail of water along the floor of every corridor she walked.”
Which meant that he had watched her pass, I realized. Either he’d been lurking in a side corridor while she went by, or he’d followed close enough in her wake that the water hadn’t dried. Hadn’t Sieh said Dekarta emptied the hallways that night? Viraine must have disobeyed that order.
“Everyone knew why she had come, or thought they did. No one expected that marriage to last. It seemed unfathomable that a woman so strong, a woman raised to rule, would give it all up for nothing.” In the reflection of the glass, Viraine looked up at me. “No offense meant.”
For an Arameri, it was almost polite. “None taken.”
He smiled thinly. “But it was for him, you see. The reason she came that night. Her husband, your father; she didn’t come to reclaim her position, she came because he had the Walking Death, and she wanted Dekarta to save him.”
I stared at him, feeling slapped.
“She even brought him with her. One of the forecourt servants glanced inside the coach and saw him in there, sweating and feverish, probably in the third stage. The journey alone must have stressed him physically, accelerating the disease’s course. She gambled everything on Dekarta’s aid.”
I swallowed. I’d known that my father had contracted the Death at some point. I’d known that my mother had fled from Sky at the height of her power, banished for the crime of loving beneath herself. But that the two events were linked—“She must have succeeded, then.”
“No. When she left to return to Darr, she was angry. Dekarta was in such a fury as I’ve never seen; I thought there would be deaths. But he simply ordered that Kinneth was to be struck from the family rolls, not only as his heir—that had already been done—but as an Arameri altogether. He ordered me to burn off her blood sigil, which can be done from a distance, and which I did. He even made a public announcement. It was the talk of society—the first time any fullblood has been disowned in, oh, centuries.”
I shook my head slowly. “And my father?”
“As far as I could tell, he was still sick when she left.”
But my father had survived the Walking Death. Surviving was not unheard of, but it was rare, especially among those who had reached third stage.
Perhaps Dekarta had changed his mind? If he had ordered it, the palace physicians would have ridden out after the carriage, caught up to it and brought it back. Dekarta could have even ordered the Enefadeh to—
Wait.
Wait.
“So that’s why she came,” Viraine said. He turned from the window to face me, sober. “For him. There’s no grand conspiracy to it, and no mystery—any servant who’d been here long enough could’ve told you this. So why were you so anxious to know that you’d ask me?”
“Because I thought you’d tell me more than a servant,” I replied. I struggled to keep my voice even, so that he would not know my suspicions. “If sufficiently motivated.”
“Is that why you goaded me?” He shook his head and sighed. “Well. It’s good to see you’ve inherited some Arameri qualities.”
“They seem to be useful here.”
He offered a sardonic incline of the head. “Anything else?”
I was dying to know more, but not from him. Still, it would not do to appear hasty.
“Do you agree with Dekarta?” I asked, just to make conversation. “That my mother would have been more harsh in dealing with that heretic?”
“Oh, yes.” I blinked in surprise, and he smiled. “Kinneth was like Dekarta, one of the few Arameri who actually took our role as Itempas’s chosen seriously. She was death on unbelievers. Death on anyone, really, who threatened the peace—or her power.” He shook his head, his smile nostalgic now. “You think Scimina’s bad? Scimina has no vision. Your mother was purpose incarnate.”
He was enjoying himself again, reading the discomfort on my face like a sigil. Perhaps I was still young enough to see her through the worshipful eyes of childhood, but the ways I’d heard my mother described since coming to Sky simply did not fit my memories. I remembered a gentle, warm woman, full of wry humor. She could be ruthless, oh yes—as befitted the wife of any ruler, especially under the circumstances in Darr at the time. But to hear her compared favorably against Scimina and praised by Dekarta… that was not the same woman who had raised me. That was another woman, with my mother’s name and background but an entirely different soul.
Viraine specialized in magics that could affect the soul. Did you do something to my mother? I wanted to ask. But that would have been far, far too simple an explanation.
“You’re wasting your time, you know,” Viraine said. He spoke softly, and his smile had faded during my long silence. “Your mother is dead. You’re still alive. You should spend more time trying to sta
y that way, and less time trying to join her.”
Was that what I was doing?
“Good day, Scrivener Viraine,” I said, and left.
I got lost then, figuratively and literally.
Sky is not generally an easy place in which to get lost. The corridors all look the same, true. The lifts get confused sometimes, carrying riders where they want to be rather than where they intend to go. (I’m told this was especially a problem for lovesick couriers.) Still, the halls are normally thick with servants who are happy to aid anyone wearing a highblood mark.
I did not ask for help. I knew this was foolish, but some part of me did not want direction. Viraine’s words had cut deep, and as I walked through the corridors I worried at the wounds with my thoughts.
It was true that I had neglected the inheritance contest in favor of learning more about my mother. Learning the truth would not bring the dead back to life, but it could certainly get me killed. Perhaps Viraine was right, and my behavior reflected some suicidal tendency. It had been less than a turn of the seasons since my mother’s death. In Darr I would have had time and family to help me mourn properly, but my grandfather’s invitation had cut that short. Here in Sky I hid my grief—but that did not mean I felt it any less.
In this frame of mind I stopped and found myself at the palace library.
T’vril had shown me this on my first day in Sky. Under ordinary circumstances I would have been awed; the library occupied a space larger than the temple of Sar-enna-nem, back in my land. Sky’s library contained more books, scrolls, tablets, and spheres than I had seen in my entire life. But I had been in need of a more peculiar kind of knowledge since my arrival in Sky, and the accumulated lore of the Hundred Thousand Kingdoms could not help me with that.
Still… for some reason, I now felt drawn to the place.
I wandered through the library’s entrance hall and was greeted only by the sounds of my own faintly echoing footsteps. The ceiling was thrice the height of a man, braced by enormous round pillars and a maze of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Both cases and pillars were covered by shelf upon shelf of books and scrolls, some accessible only by the ladders that I saw in each corner. Here and there were tables and chairs, where one might lounge and read for hours.
Yet there seemed to be no one else around, which surprised me. Were the Arameri so inured to luxury that they took even this treasure trove for granted? I stopped to examine a wall of tomes as thick as my head, then I realized I couldn’t read a single one. Senmite—the Amn language—had become the common tongue since the Arameri’s ascension, but most nations were still allowed their own languages so long as they taught Senmite, too. These looked like Teman. I checked the next wall; Kenti. Somewhere in the place there was probably a Darren shelf, but I had no idea of where to begin finding it.
“Are you lost?”
I jumped, and turned to see a short, plump old Amn woman a few feet away, peering around the curve of a pillar. I hadn’t noticed her at all. By the sour look on her face, she’d probably thought herself alone in the library, too.
“I—” I realized I had no idea what to say. I hadn’t come in for any purpose. To stall, I said, “Is there a shelf here in Darren? Or at least, where are the Senmite books?”
Wordlessly, the old woman pointed right behind me. I turned and saw three shelves of Darren books. “The Senmite starts around the corner.”
Feeling supremely foolish, I nodded thanks and studied the Darren shelf. For several minutes I stared at them before realizing that half were poetry, and the other half collections of tales I’d heard all my life. Nothing useful.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” The woman stood right beside me now. I started a bit, since I hadn’t heard her move.
But at her question, I suddenly realized there was something I could learn from the library. “Information about the Gods’ War,” I said.
“Religious texts are in the chapel, not here.” If anything, now the woman looked more sour. Perhaps she was the librarian, in which case I might have offended her. It was clear the library saw little enough traffic as it was without being mistaken for someplace else.
“I don’t want religious texts,” I said quickly, hoping to placate her. “I want… historical accounts. Death records. Journals, letters, scholarly interpretations… anything written at the time.”
The woman narrowed her eyes at me for a moment. She was the only adult I’d seen in Sky who was shorter than me, which might have comforted me somewhat if not for the blatant hostility in her expression. I marveled at the hostility, for she was dressed in the same simple white uniform as most of the servants. Usually all it took was the sight of the fullblood mark on my brow to make them polite to the point of obsequiousness.
“There are some things like that,” she said. “But any complete accounts of the war have been heavily censored by the priests. There might be a few untouched resources left in private collections—it’s said Lord Dekarta keeps the most valuable of these in his quarters.”
I should have known. “I’d like to see anything you have.” Nahadoth had made me curious. I knew nothing of the Gods’ War that the priests hadn’t told me. Perhaps if I read the accounts myself, I could sift some truth from the lies.
The old woman pursed her lips, thoughtful, and then gestured curtly for me to follow her. “This way.”
I followed her through the winding aisles, my awe growing as I realized just how truly big the place was. “This library must hold all the knowledge of the world.”
My dour companion snorted. “A few millennia worth, from a few pockets of humanity, nothing more. And that picked and sorted, trimmed and twisted to suit the tastes of those in power.”
“There’s truth even in tainted knowledge, if one reads carefully.”
“Only if one knows the knowledge is tainted in the first place.” Turning another corner, the old woman stopped. We had reached some sort of nexus amid the maze. Before us, several bookcases had been arranged back-to-back as a titanic six-sided column. Each bookcase was a good five feet wide, tall and sturdy enough to help support the ceiling that was twenty feet or more above; the whole structure rivaled the trunk of a centuries-old tree. “There is what you want.”
I took a step toward the column and then stopped, abruptly uncertain. When I turned back, I realized the old woman was watching me with a disconcertingly intent gaze. Her eyes were the color of low-grade pewter.
“Excuse me,” I said, spurred by some instinct. “There’s a lot here. Where would you suggest I begin?”
She scowled and said “How should I know?” before turning away. She vanished amid the stacks before I could recover from the shock of such blatant rudeness.
But I had more important concerns than one cranky librarian, so I turned my attention back to the column. Choosing a shelf at random, I skimmed the spines for titles that sounded interesting, and began my hunt.
Two hours later—I had moved to the floor in the interim, spreading books and scrolls around myself—exasperation set in. Groaning, I flung myself back amid the circle of books, sprawling over them in a way that would surely incense the librarian if she saw me. The old woman’s comments had made me think there would be little mention of the Gods’ War, but this was anything but the case. There were complete eyewitness accounts of the war. There were accounts of accounts, and critical analyses of those accounts. There was so much information, in fact, that if I had begun reading that day and continued without stopping, it would have taken me months to read it all.
And try as I might, I could not sift the truth from what I’d read. All of the accounts cited the same series of events: the weakening of the world, in which every living thing from forests to strong young men had grown ill and begun to die. The three-day storm. The shattering and re-formation of the sun. On the third day the skies had gone quiet, and Itempas appeared to explain the new order of the world.
What was missing were the events leading up to the war. Here I co
uld see the priests had been busy, for I could find no descriptions of the gods’ relationship prior to the war. There were no mentions of customs or beliefs in the days of the Three. Those few texts that even touched on the subject simply cited what Bright Itempas had told the first Arameri: Enefa was instigator and villain, Nahadoth her willing coconspirator, Lord Itempas the hero betrayed and then triumphant. And I had wasted more time.
Rubbing my tired eyes, I debated whether to try again the next day or just give up altogether. But as I mustered my strength to get up, something caught my eye. On the ceiling. I could see, from this angle, where two of the bookcases joined to form the column. But they were not actually joined; there was a gap between them perhaps six inches wide. Puzzled, I sat up and peered closer at the column. It appeared as it always had, a set of huge, heavily laden bookcases arranged back-to-back in a rough circle, joined tight with no gaps.
Another of Sky’s secrets? I got to my feet.
The trick was amazingly simple, once I took a good look. The bookcases were made of a heavy, dark wood that was naturally black in color—probably Darren, I guessed belatedly; once upon a time we’d been famous for it. Through the gaps I could see the backs of the other bookcases, also blackwood. Because the edges of the gaps were black, and the backs of the bookcases were black, the gaps themselves were all but invisible, even from a few steps away. But knowing the gaps were there…
I peered through the nearest gap and saw a wide, white-floored space corraled by the bookcases. Had someone tried to hide this space? But that made no sense; the trick was so simple that someone, probably many someones, must have found the inner column before. That suggested the goal was not to conceal, but to misdirect—to prevent casual browsers and passersby from finding whatever was within the column. Only those who knew the visual trick was there, or who spent enough time looking for information, would find it.
The Inheritance Trilogy Page 11