Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “What will you tell the King?” Bryndine asked. “He must know what we saw, and you do not believe our story.”

  Alyn laughed. “Always so dutiful. The Army would be lucky to have more soldiers like you, and less like Uran.” He feigned a wounded expression. “But I am hurt that you think I could deny my favorite cousin. Your story is hard to believe, but I trust your eyes and your mind. I will tell the King exactly what you told me.”

  Bryndine offered her cousin a rare, grateful smile, but it lasted only a moment before it was replaced by the solemn determination I recognized well. There was no doubt in her next words.

  “Then we sail for the Salt Mountains.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The people of the Salt Mountains have no true leader. They are divided into many nomadic clans, each with a chief of its own.

  However, they appoint one man as their Barrock, a military and diplomatic figure in charge of relations with the Kingsland. The position dates back to before the Forgetting, when—according to the clansfolk—a King Elwyn, who they jokingly name “Salteater”, tried to invade their lands, and a man named Barrock united the clans to repel the King’s Army. Barrock then negotiated a treaty under which the Kingsland could mine the mountains, but had to pay for the privilege.

  The clans also respect the guidance of the Storytellers, religious figures who are said to remember the entire history of their people. As they have no written language, the Storytellers pass their knowledge down orally, and must have near perfect memories. Due to the wisdom gleaned from these stories, they are trusted advisors to the clan chiefs.

  — From Dennon Lark’s History of the Salt Mountain Clans

  Finding the clansfolk was not difficult. Midway into autumn, they were already gathered along the sea cliffs, and their camps were visible from the deck of the ship as we sailed up the coast. Navigating the rocky waters along the cliffs—called the Dragon’s Teeth by the sailors—was a greater problem, but with Leste’s aid we had been able to recruit an experienced and able crew. They sailed the Teeth swiftly, and within four days, found us a safe berth at one of the small docks the Mountainers used to launch their fishing boats.

  As we unloaded our supplies and led our mounts from the ship, a group of clansmen approached us down the narrow cliffside path, all five of them dressed in thick white snowcat furs against the chill of the mountains. Huddled inside the too-large greatcoat Prince Alyn had provided—and despite the layers of heavy clothing I wore beneath it—I envied them their apparent warmth. In fact, I envied the women as well, seemingly impervious to the cold under their cloaks and leathers and woollen underpadding. Only I had to wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering.

  “Kingslanders,” one of the approaching clansmen—a tall heavyset man with a beard—hailed us in a stern tone. “Why are you here? Our tribute for the mines came on the last half-moon.”

  Bryndine saluted the men as they drew near. “We seek the guidance of your Storytellers.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed with distrust. “The Storytellers serve the clans and the Dragon, not the Kingsland. You will come with us to the Barrock. Kingslanders are his concern.”

  Bryndine nodded respectfully. “It would be my honor to speak with the Barrock. Tenille, see that the horses are made ready. Scriber Dennon, come with me.”

  Without instruction, Sylla fell into step beside us, and Bryndine accepted her presence without rebuke. The clansmen led us up the path they had come by, and then along the cliffs heading north. As we walked, I took note of the camps we passed through—I had never before set foot in the mountains beyond Highpass, and though I had read about them, it was an altogether different thing to see firsthand how the clansfolk lived.

  They built no permanent structures; we passed mostly hide tents and covered caves. Few of the clansfolk let our presence distract them from the business of untangling fishing nets, gutting their daily catch, or simply sharing stories around the cooking pits. They went about these tasks with an eclectic collection of goods: steel tools forged in the Kingsland alongside stone ones of their own make; Raenish fabrics sewn to rough animal hides; fine glass jars mixed in among rough clay pots. The mining treaty with the Kingsland provided them with many things they could not produce themselves, and they let nothing go to waste.

  The Barrock’s tent was no larger or more impressive than any of the others, and nothing marked it as different, so I was surprised when the clansmen came to a halt. Their leader motioned for Bryndine to follow him inside.

  “Scriber Dennon, join me,” she said. “I may need you to help explain what we seek.” She looked to the large bearded man for permission. “If that is acceptable.”

  The man gave a slight nod and lifted the hide flap that covered the entrance of the tent.

  Sylla moved to join us, but one of the clansmen barred her way with an outstretched spear. Sylla tensed, and her hand twitched towards her sword.

  “No more,” the leader said to Bryndine. “Only you and the skinny man.”

  “I am in no danger, Sylla,” Bryndine said. “Please, wait for us here.”

  For a moment I thought Sylla might disobey, but she reluctantly let her hand fall and stepped back. I could feel her angry glare behind me as I followed Bryndine into the Barrock’s tent.

  The Barrock sat cross-legged on a pile of furs at the back of the tent, sharpening a Kingsland-forged longsword. He looked much like the rest of the clansmen—a wiry man with dark hair and a short beard, dressed in plain hide breeches and a woollen shirt, bearing no regalia or badge of office. He was seated, but I could tell that he was no larger than myself. It did nothing to diminish his presence—he had a keen, slightly intimidating air about him, that of a man in full command of himself and his surroundings. He showed no surprise at our entrance, simply swept his dark eyes over us appraisingly and nodded in greeting.

  “You are Elarryd Errynson’s daughter,” he stated, looking at Bryndine. “I see it in your face. I have met with your father many times. A wise man.”

  Though her height already forced her to bend down in the low-roofed tent, Bryndine bowed slightly further. “You honor my family, Connig Barrock. My name is Bryndine, and this is Scriber Dennon Lark. We come seeking your aid.”

  The Barrock furrowed his brow. “My people do not take kindly to Kingslanders asking favors. Tell me what you need, and I will tell you if it is possible.”

  “We require a guide to the place where Prince Willyn was last seen alive,” said Bryndine.

  The Barrock slid his whetstone along the edge of his blade, a pensive expression on his face. “I can see no harm in that,” he said after a moment. “The Storytellers will know. The Dragon has blessed them with all memories of our people. But it is rare for them to share their stories with outsiders, and I cannot make them help you. I can only ask. Sit, we will wait.” He gestured to the fur-lined ground, then turned to the bearded man who had brought us to him. “Edred, fetch Teller Revik.”

  It was not long before the Storyteller entered the tent. He was old, grey-haired and slightly stooped beneath his rough spun robes, his deeply lined face twisted into a disapproving scowl. It was immediately evident that he was not pleased to see us.

  “You disappoint me, Connig,” he said in a hoarse, quavering voice. “The Storytellers are not at the beck and call of Kingslanders.”

  “Their request is small enough,” the Barrock replied calmly. “And she is Elarryd Errynson’s daughter. He has treated fairly with us. Hear them out, Teller Revik. If you wish to refuse them afterwards, I will not argue.”

  Revik made a disgusted noise in his throat, but nodded. Without speaking, he lowered himself into a seated position on the floor of the tent and looked expectantly at Bryndine.

  “We mean no disrespect, Teller Revik. We only need a guide to show us to where Prince Willyn was last seen.” Bryndine’s tone was impeccably polite, even reverent towards the old man.

  “It is remembered that we showed Kingslanders to t
hat place, many years ago,” Revik said. “They found no sign of the Prince. Why should we bring you back there now?”

  “We believe that Willyn was seeking something hidden in the mountains by Prince Fyrril,” I explained. “A collection of books from the Archives. It would help us greatly to know where he was looking.”

  The Storyteller frowned. “Prince Fyrril was a friend to our people. He helped us to repair the treaty your selfish rulers scorned for so long, helped us to earn more than scraps from the Kingsland’s table. This is remembered. We will not betray his secrets.”

  I was becoming annoyed with the old man’s attitude. “Fyrril wanted those books to be found,” I insisted, taking the scroll case we had found in Three Rivers from the pocket of my coat. “He left a trail that has led us this far. Here, read this.” I took the journal page from the silver case and offered it to Revik.

  “I do not know your letters, Kingslander,” the old man said disdainfully. “We have no need of them here.”

  “I will read it to you.” I unrolled the paper, and read the words aloud—with particular emphasis on the end, where Fyrril begged for someone to seek the books out in Ryndport.

  When I was done, the Barrock held out his hand. “Let me see,” he said. When I handed him the page, he looked it over, then nodded at Teller Revik. “The Scriber read truly, and I do not believe it to be a forgery, Storyteller.”

  “It does not speak of the Salt Mountains,” Revik said doubtfully.

  “No,” replied Bryndine, “but our path has led us here. You must see that Fyrril wanted his work to be recovered. We believe that the threats he writes of have returned.”

  Revik stroked his chin, then heaved a deep sigh. “Very well. Fyrril was a brother to our people. I will respect his wishes.” The stubborn set to his jaw relaxed slightly. “You are right, he did come to us with something precious to hide. It is remembered.”

  My eyes widened. “You have known this all along, and said nothing?” It was not truly surprising—the Academy had been unaware of Fyrril’s importance until recently, and the clansmen offered nothing freely to the Kingsland. But I could not help thinking how different my life might have been if Fyrril’s secrets had been revealed before I had ever thought to search the Old Garden.

  Revik glared at me. “We do not share our knowledge without reason,” he said. “But even if we did, it is not remembered what Fyrril hid, or why. He did not say, and we did not ask. We allowed him and his men to go alone into the mountains.”

  “Then you do not know where the books are?” Bryndine asked.

  “No,” the Storyteller answered. “I can tell you where your Prince Willyn was last seen. That is all.”

  Bryndine nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Teller Revik. That is all we ask.”

  “Then listen, Kingslanders, and I will tell you this story as it was told to me,” Revik began in his tremulous voice. “As it has been remembered from the moment it happened and will be remembered until the Dragon’s seas swallow the world once more.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I often wish that I had not brought these women with me. Too many have given their lives already. But when I stop to think about it, it is clear that without them, I would be dead ten times over, and certainly no closer to finding Fyrril’s books.

  If there is any justice in the world, Bryndine’s company will be recognized for their service when we return.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  Five days later, watching the clansmen ride away on their surefooted mules, I had to wonder if we were making a mistake.

  There was nothing remarkable about the place where Willyn had last been seen. A flat stretch of ground beside a mountain stream, it was a fine place to make camp for a night or two, and nothing more. Apparently, Willyn and his men had been doing just that when the Stonewater Clan had come upon them.

  The story Revik had told us after his unnecessarily ceremonial introduction was short and simple: Willyn had told the clansmen that he intended to forge north from this campsite, leaving the established trails; they warned him that to do so was unwise, that the northern slopes were prone to rockslides and prowled by hungry snowcats. The Prince had not heeded their advice.

  Nor did we. The clansmen who had guided us there made it very clear that they would go no further if we meant to follow Willyn’s trail, not with winter fast approaching. If we were still in the mountains when the snows came, death would be almost a certainty. But we had no choice. The Lost Prince was our last hope to find Fyrril’s books.

  Over the next few days, Willyn’s campsite became a base for our search. Bryndine divided us into two groups to better cover the area—she, Sylla, Rylene, Deanyn, Leste, and Ivyla ranged to the northwest, while Tenille led Debra, Kaelyn, Orya, Wynne, and myself through the northeastern wilderness. The mounts could manage the mountain trails, but the terrain off the beaten path was too rough for them, so we were forced to walk. Each morning, we set out to search while Selvi and Elene stayed behind to watch the tents and tend the horses. Each night, we regrouped at the camp with nothing to show for our efforts.

  There were no trails where we searched, only cliffs and ledges, ravines and barren valleys. From afar, the Salt Mountains looked like waves made solid, but this close, they only looked like what they were: cold, desolate rocks. None of us knew exactly what we were looking for—some sign of Willyn’s passage, some cave or crevasse where Fyrril might have hidden the books from the Archives. We spent most of our days seeking safe passage through the treacherous terrain, finding nothing of particular note.

  After a week of meandering through the mountains with no results, I began to despair. We knew too little to search with any accuracy, and there was no time left to wander blindly with the icy Salt Mountain winter threatening to arrive any day. In fact, on the morning of our seventh day of searching, snow had begun to fall lightly on the higher slopes. That same afternoon, hiking up a thin ridge at the edge of a long canyon, we found our path blocked by fallen rocks—the remnant of some past rockslide. I threw my hands up in disgust at the sight. We could not afford the time it would take to clear the way.

  “We may as well see how much we can clear before nightfall,” Tenille said with a sigh. “Debra, Kaelyn, with me. We’ll work in shifts—the path isn’t wide enough for more than three of us.”

  “What does it matter?” I asked, holding a hand out to catch a light dusting of snowflakes. “We have at most a week before the snowfall stops our search entirely, and it will take most of that time to move those rocks.”

  “We have come this far, and at your insistence, if I recall,” said Tenille, tapping at the golden pin on her collar. “You and I are sworn to see this through. We cannot give up now.”

  “No, I suppose not,” I admitted. “I’m sorry, it just seems so—”

  “I know,” Tenille interrupted. “But we have to try.”

  They set to work, and Wynne, Orya and I settled in to wait on the rocky ridge a short distance down from the blockage. To Orya’s great displeasure and boredom, I spent the time teaching Wynne what I knew of Elovian letters and sentence structure—I had been giving her lessons at night in the camp, and she was a quick student.

  About a half-hour passed before Debra jogged down and called for us to take our turn. Grumbling, I stowed my papers and ink back in my pack and pushed myself to my feet.

  And then the mountain began to fall.

  The noise came first, a great rumble and crack from above. The others looked upwards in shock and confusion, but I knew that sound instantly. For just a moment, I was back beneath the Old Garden, watching as the ceiling fell.

  But it was only for a moment, and then I threw myself into motion, grabbing Wynne and Orya and pulling them with me. “It’s a rockslide!” I yelled. “Down the ridge, quickly!”

  A torrent of pebbles and dirt pelted against me as I sprinted down the narrow ledge with Wynne beside me and Orya—cursing loudly and furiously—at my back. Loud
crashes shook the ground beneath my feet as stones tumbled down the mountainside. Sparing a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw Debra running not far back, Tenille and Kaelyn following close behind.

  Kaelyn’s foot slipped in the powdery snow that dusted the ground and she stumbled, falling back a step. Just a step, but it was enough. A dark shadow spread over the pretty young soldier as the rocks rushed towards her. I heard myself scream her name, saw her hurl herself forward—but it was too late. A huge boulder slammed into her, smashing her off the ridge.

  I put my head down and pushed my aching legs to their limit, narrowing my focus to only the ground at my feet. A single misstep could have killed me, just as surely as it had Kaelyn. My lungs burned and my heart beat loudly in my ears—so loudly that I barely noticed when the rumbling stopped.

  “Scriber Dennon!” Wynne shouted from behind. “It’s over.”

  I slowed, looked back, finally took note of the silence. Ironically, the violence of the rockslide had left the path almost entirely clear. The rubble that had blocked the way had been carried down into the ravine with the rest of the falling rocks.

  “Sky and Earth, I thought that was the end,” I panted, bracing my hands against my knees. “Is anyone hurt?” I swept my eyes over the others in concern.

  That was when I noticed Tenille was gone.

  “Where is Tenille? Did she fall?” I searched the ridge again with my eyes, but there was no sign of her; no place her body might be hidden.

  “Thought she was behind me.” Guilt contorted Debra’s face. “She was there when Kaelyn… I thought she was behind me.”

  “I see her!” Orya shouted.

  I turned to see Orya crouched over the edge of the ravine, and my heart fell into my stomach. Joining her at the cliff’s edge, I gathered my courage and peeked downwards. The ravine was more than a hundred feet deep, and the height made my vision spin. Falling to my knees, I gripped the earth with white-knuckled fingers, just barely mastering myself enough to keep my eyes open.