by Jacob Cooper
“Do you even know what’s down here? Aren’t you even curious? Who cares if it’s been walled up and sealed off! That’s the reason I’m here! Why was it hidden? That’s the question!” Ryall yelled at a volume loud enough to overcome Holden’s incessant scolding. He realized his voice was reaching dangerous levels and their arguing could be their undoing. Holden looked away, abashed, as if realizing the same thing.
“We’re both idiots,” Holden confessed, still looking away. He exhaled a long breath that seemed to be apologetic. “I’m sorry, alright? I’m just worried.”
“And scared,” Ryall added.
“And scared.”
“I am too, actually. But I just can’t let this go. Not yet.” His tone had lost its sarcastic edge. “But it’s not because of some immature curiosity, contrary to what you might believe, Holden. Not anymore. Let me show you what I found.”
Holden raised his head and then closed his eyes. “When they burn us at the stake for this, I’ll curse your name. Then, when we awaken in the Ancient Darkness after we’re dead, I’m going to stone your head in. I swear.”
Ryall smiled, knowing this was his friend’s way of consenting to his request.
“Deal! Now look.” Ryall moved his torch to illuminate the rows of large obsidian tablets. Holden’s eyes grew larger as he took in the sight.
“What are they?” Holden asked in wonder.
“Archiver tablets.”
Holden looked skeptical. “Then, why aren’t they in the Jarwyn Mountains?”
Ryall shrugged. “No idea, but check this out.” Ryall showed him how the glyphs at the top of the first tablet of each row matched to a glyph of an inlet, and how the number of tablets in a given row matched the number of scrolls in an inlet with a corresponding glyph. Holden’s interest rose.
“I’ve been down here almost all night, reading as many tablets as I can. Most of it’s so boring, but when’s the last time someone actually saw this stuff? Kind of neat to think we might be the first people in decades, maybe centuries!” Ryall nearly shouted.
“Shh! Second moon will set soon and the sun will rise not long after. We’ll come back tonight.”
“No, wait. Just a little more time,” Ryall said.
“You’ve got my attention, all right? We’ll come back, tonight. Let’s not be stupid about this and get caught now. Well, let’s not be more stupid than we’re already being.”
Just after the final bell of the evening sounded, signaling the beginning of night and end of all activity in the monastery, Holden and Ryall found themselves back in the cavern. They each lit a torch and carried one more in reserve. Ryall tried to hold back a laugh.
“What?” Holden asked behind a long yawn.
“A hand or fellow, born sick and yellow?” Ryall heckled his friend.
“Shut up,” Holden snapped. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, remember?”
“You’re likely to get even less tonight, I’d guess. But still, you should have seen the look on your face! It wasn’t half as bad as the look on Vicar Johann’s face though. I thought he was going to chew you up and spit you out.”
“The words were blurring together, okay?” the redheaded boy answered. “It was sort of embarrassing.”
“That’s the best part!” his friend jabbed. “When have you ever misread a section of prose in literature forum?”
“Never,” was all Holden could get out. During their last class of the day, literature forum, students would study and recite passages from different texts. The delivery was as important as the words themselves. This half-span had been the Scrolls of Rebirth, ancient scriptures that predated the invasion of the Senthary and told of the Ancient Heavens’ cycling of the lands. During Holden’s assigned passage, one line read, “…a land more fallow, torn sick and sallow…” but Holden, in his wearied state, read aloud, “…a hand or fellow, born sick and yellow…” He had said it with such vigor and conviction, trying to mask his fading energy and still impress the Vicar.
“You should have seen yourself thundering the last words as if speaking to a crowd of thousands! Bravo!”
Holden just grimaced.
“At least you can redeem yourself now,” Ryall promised. “One of the things I can’t figure out is why there are scrolls in Hardacheon that match the Archiver tablets. Who wrote the scrolls? They obviously contain our history and there are Archiver records in Sentharian, so why would someone take the trouble to translate them into Hardacheon?”
“Who says the Archiver tablets came first?” Holden asked. Ryall looked up at his friend. “Maybe they are translations of the scrolls.”
“Okay, good point I guess, but how could Hardacheons be recording our history after they were all destroyed? Even if a few still lived, why would they care to record the history of their conquerors?”
“Are you sure all the scrolls here line up with these tablets? I mean, look around. This place has thousands more scrolls than tablets. There’s what, seven or eight rows of tablets? There are hundreds if not thousands of these cubby things, each with at least one scroll from what we have seen.”
Ryall again was nonplussed. “Well, let’s at least figure out which scrolls line up with which rows of tablets. Then we’ll have a starting place, I suppose.”
“A starting place for what?” Holden asked. He knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“For translating the scrolls, what else? We’ve got several dozen tablets that line up with as many scrolls. We can read the tablets and probably decipher the other scrolls not related to them if we use them as a key of sorts,” Ryall said. “What else are we going to do for the next four-and-a-half years?”
An adherent was pronounced a Vicar of the Ancient Heavens at age twenty after completing six years at the Changrual Monastery and passing proficiency examinations in an expansive breadth of subject matter.
“How about get through our studies with drawing as little attention as possible? I’m certain we’ll have a harder time already due to our reputation,” Holden said. “So, you’ve read some of these Archiver tablets?”
“Nearly the first two rows. Did you know that the land our people came from was called Feylan? And that Brant Kearon and Oliver Wellyn were actually cousins?”
“They were related?” The revelation shocked Holden.
“First row, third tablet in. The first three tablets there talk about life in Feylan before the land cycled. It sounds very different than life here in Senthara. In fact, Oliver Wellyn wasn’t the ruler in Feylan, nor here when they first arrived for the invasion.”
“Who was the High Duke then? And does it say where Feylan is?” Holden asked.
“There was no High Duke then. Just someone who they called the Luminary of House Kearon.”
“Luminary?” Holden raised an eyebrow. “Kearon?”
Ryall shrugged. “It’s what it says. His words were very influential apparently. Some said he was the Living Light. Oh, he was bastard born, too.”
“You’re starting to bray again, jackass,” Holden said, obviously not believing his friend.
“Read for yourself,” Ryall said, unconcerned.
“Okay, so why, if we’re the Senthary people – and this land is named after us—why wouldn’t we have named this Feylan place Senthara as well? Why not call the land after us then like we do now?” Holden challenged.
“Because our ancestors weren’t called Sentharians before they came here.”
“Oh, Burning Heavens, are you serious?” Holden whispered. His brow was furrowed tightly.
“We really have to work on your swearing,” Ryall said. “And of course I’m serious. I think you should stop asking questions and start reading. You have some catching up to do.”
“What happened to this ‘Luminary’ of yours?”
“Wouldn’t you rather just read for yourself?”
“I’d rather be in bed, safely asleep, and not lurking through dark, forgotten underground little evil libraries!”
“This is little?”
“I’m going to stone your head in,” Holden threatened.
“All right, all right! Sensitive, huh?”
“Sleep deprived.”
“Fine, here’s your last freebee. It’s true that Brant Kearon lead House Kearon and her allies against House Wellyn, like we’ve always been told. But knowing that Oliver Wellyn wasn’t actually the leader of the Senthary at the time, or, that is, of the Faylen people, makes you wonder a little, right?”
“No, not really.”
Ryall looked at his friend, surprised. “Holden, you crow turd, we’re taught that Oliver Wellyn was the High Duke and Brant Kearon made a play for rule. These Archiver tablets,” he continued, emphasizing “Archiver”, “say that the Luminary, the Bastard of Kearon, led the people and that House Wellyn convinced others to rebel against him. Archivers only record what they see without bias.”
“Bastard of Kearon? You come up with that yourself, did you?”
“Yup, took me all night,” Ryall announced with mock pride.
“I thought so. Impressive.”
“Obviously House Wellyn won, otherwise we would not be here now.”
“Very astute of you. Why the rebellion against your Bastard of Kearon?”
“He had a book of some kind with powerful words. The description is more akin to a bunch of parchment strung together but the tablets say he was never seen without it. They say when he spoke the words people were empowered and could achieve great things beyond their normal strength or intelligence.”
Holden closed his eyes and sighed. “And Oliver wanted the book that contained magic for himself so he tried to take it by force, right?”
“How did you know?”
“It’s so predictable, Ryall. It’s the same story over and over. Someone has power, someone else covets it.”
“There’s probably a reason it’s a common theme, genius. It’s our nature as people.”
“Maybe yours, I just want to go about my learning and keep my head down.”
Ryall continued, undeterred: “After the Kearon were defeated they were stripped of power and all citizenship, like we’ve always been taught, and the Kearon mostly emigrated south to the desert.”
“You’ve used two four-syllable words in the last sentence. Very well done. Was the Luminary killed?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“If the book was so powerful, or its words, how were the Kearon defeated?” Holden asked.
“For the first year or so, House Kearon and her allies seemed impenetrable. They actually never did any offensive campaigns. Just defended where attacked and won every battle. But after that year, something happened in the war that turned the tide.”
“Yes?”
“Oh a little more interested now, I see. Well, it doesn’t actually say that either. There were rumors of many assassinations, though, that plagued the Kearon people and her allies. Almost every lord who sided with the Luminary and Brant Kearon was found dead. Soon after, the alliance of houses in support of House Kearon fractured and fell apart. They were forced to sue for peace.”
“And the Luminary’s book? Did Oliver get it?”
“Apparently not, but it says he went mad near the end of his reign searching for it, seeing ghosts and things not there. Or something like that.”
Holden shrugged. “Wonderful. That seems to somehow have been omitted from our history scrolls. No wonder these tablets are hidden deep away from the light of day.”
“Which is also why we must see what all these other scrolls say.”
“I was right. We are going to be burned at the stake.”
The excitement came after a couple hours of cataloguing and matching scrolls with individual Archiver tablets. While Holden had been doing most of that work, Ryall had sat patiently working through the first scroll that matched the first tablet, the story of the Luminary and Oliver Wellyn, painstakingly going back and forth in the torchlight and trying to make a connection between the Hardacheon symbols on the scroll and the Sentharian words on the Archiver tablets. He was convinced the tablets were actually translations of the scrolls now, the opposite of what he had first supposed. But, taking a language that appeared to be based on symbols with meanings and comparing it to a language that used letters to represent sounds was proving a bit much for the fifteen-year-old adherent. Introduction to Linguistics was not even a class until third year, and Ryall doubted they were going to be studying the Hardacheon language anyway.
“Ancients Come, I’m never going to get this.”
“Why not?” Holden asked as he continued his own efforts.
“It’s not a related language. It’s just too far apart. We use letters and sounds, they used symbols to describe things. Stuff. Whatever. Who knows how many words each symbol might stand for? I can’t even establish a baseline to start from.”
“Okay, look,” Holden said as he squatted down next to Ryall. “How many words are there on the tablet?”
“What? I don’t know—”
“Count,” Holden said. Ryall shrugged and complied.
“Three hundred and eighty-one,” he reported.
“Okay now, how many symbols are there on the scroll?”
Ryall had caught on and was already counting. “One hundred and twenty-one.”
“All right. This isn’t perfect, but basically there are three Sentharian words for every one Hardacheon symbol. Start trying to group the words with the symbols and you might start to notice the same symbols showing up for similar words. Or even similar descriptions on the tablets characterized by the same Hardacheon symbol on the scroll.”
“Ya know, for an idiot, you’re not that dumb,” Ryall said.
“And for a jackass, you don’t smell all that terrible,” Holden countered.
Ryall didn’t answer but took to his task. He started by identifying repeating symbols, of which there were several. But somehow, they didn’t line up at all with where he thought they should according to the words on the tablet. Frustration was about to force him to give up when he saw it.
“Fallen Ancients!” Ryall exclaimed. The echo of his curse reverberated through the cavern. Ryall brought his hand over his mouth with wide eyes after he realized how loud he had yelled.
“I hate you,” Holden said.
“I found it! I mean, I got it! Holden, I got it!”
“Right, and now we’re both dead. The whole monastery heard you. Really great work.”
“Whatever, we put the stones back in place. But look! I was assuming the symbols go from left to right, like how we read our language. But they don’t. They descend, top to bottom, starting on the right. It has to be. I see symbols from the scrolls lining up with repeated words and ideas from the tablets if I read it that way. See?”
Holden gave a weak grunt in acknowledgement.
“That’s it?” Ryall asked.
“I knew you’d figure it out. I’m about done lining up scrolls and tablets. But still, Ryall, realize there are hundreds more of these little alcoves with thousands more scrolls.”
“And soon, we’ll be able to read them. Or at least some of them to learn where they came from or their time period.”
“I know, but—”
Ryall gave Holden a look that seemed to ask, Really?
“All I’m saying,” Holden pressed on, “is that these are Hardacheon scrolls. They had Dark Influences and knowledge. I’m not so sure we should be anxious to delve into their history.”
“Holden, when have I ever led you astray?”
“I don’t have time to make a list so lengthy,” Holden shot back.
“And why do the lands die?” Vicar Johann asked his class.
Holden looked over at his friend and rolled his eyes. He mouthed the question, “Seriously?” before putting his head back down on his desk. Holden’s flat forehead lay perfectly flush with the wood desktop. Ryall stifled a chuckle. He was weary like Holden, but knew if he dared close his eyes he would slip away from wake
fulness into a deep slumber. He’d likely end up with Vicar Johann slamming a rod down on his desk causing him to jump awake, cursing. Then he’d really be in trouble. Holden and Ryall had not slept at all last night.
“Anyone?” the Vicar repeated.
“Because they must renew themselves from time to time and purge themselves,” answered Tama, a lowborn second-year student from the East. The girl had volunteered to enter the Changrual Monastery. Such an act was not all that uncommon, but certainly something that only the most annoyingly devout would do. “The Ancient Heavens set it up this way.”
“Ah,” Johann intoned. “So, it is necessary?”
“Why else would the lands die and renew if not?”
Ryall saw the glint in Vicar Johann’s eyes that shone whenever he was about to start a philosophical rant and prove that he was all-wise when compared to his ignorant students. The fact that he was four decades older than most of his students didn’t seem to be an adequate reason as to why he was so much smarter.
“I wonder what, as you say, the lands purge themselves of?” the Vicar challenged.
Tama was caught short and without an answer.
“The soil loses its vitality and nutrients over time,” interjected a plump first-year boy from Talen, a farming village in the South near the Eastern Province border. “My father always said so anyway. His harvest has been a little more meager the past couple of years.”
“So, the Ancient Heavens created a world that cannot properly provide for its inhabitants? Doesn’t that seem to imply that the plan was flawed from the beginning? Or perhaps it was a test for us here, but the cycling of lands causes so much death and hardship, bloodshed and strife. Surely this is not what the Ancient Heavens had in mind unless they are cruel and subjective, the opposite of what the scrolls teach. Anyone else?”
The classroom was silent. Roughly thirty students all looked away, refusing to make contact with the invigorated Vicar.
Vicar Johann turned away and started walking back toward the front of the classroom with his finger held up in an admonishing gesture. “Well, I think you’ll better understand as you continue—”