Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “Take her away!” Syrid screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “Death,” a thousand voices shrieked in my head.

  The soldiers strained against her chains, tried to pull her away from the King, but Bryndine set her feet and stood firm. It would take more than six men to move her; it would take more men than there were in the entire King’s Army, it seemed to me.

  Insults and accusations filled the hall—Bryndine’s words were falling on deaf ears. “Bitch!” they called her. “Sorceress! Liar!”

  “It’s a trap,” one soldier declared. “We leave the city and her rebel friends are waiting to slit our throats.”

  Bryndine paid no heed to the vitriol they hurled at her; she just spoke louder to be heard above the noise. “Honor your oaths! Hold true to the Promise! This is not a time to hide within the walls; this is a time for courage!”

  The big soldier who had struck her before the trial drew his sword and jammed the point against her back. “You best shut your mouth,” he growled.

  When she looked over her shoulder at him, he flinched visibly, but she only said, “I have nothing more to say.”

  “That is truer than you know,” the King said, staring at her with unconcealed hatred. “You speak with the voice of corruption. In the name of Erryn’s Promise, I will not allow your Elovian magicks to curse my people!”

  The people cheered at that, and most swept their fingers through the air in the sign of the Divide. Shouts of “Long live the King” and “Mother shelter him” and “Father bless his rule” roared through the throne room. It was sickening.

  Syrid raised a hand to acknowledge the support of the crowd, then looked down at Bryndine and me with cold eyes and said, “Your sorcery will die with you.” He motioned for the soldiers to remove us. “Take them to the gallows. If my niece tries anything, kill her.”

  The soldiers led us away from the throne, and this time Bryndine did not resist. This is the end, then. I thought of Illias, of what I would have said if I could have spoken to him one more time. Then, unexpectedly, I remembered the promise I had made to Deanyn that night in the Salt Mountains—to keep myself alive. I had not done a particularly good job of keeping it. I won’t see her again to apologize. But then, if I was alive to see her, I’d have nothing to apologize for. It was a ridiculous thought; I wished I could have shared it with her. She would have seen the humor in it. Still, maybe it is best to have it done swiftly. No time for fear.

  “I’m sorry, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said softly.

  “Don’t be,” I said. “You did all you could.”

  The citizens were quieter now, though they still pointed and spoke in low voices as the soldiers led us by. The sentence had been given, and these were the sort of people who liked to think themselves pious; it would not have been proper to cheer or gloat. So instead they pretended at solemnity, pretended that they had not come here with bloodlust in their hearts, praying to the Mother and the Father that they might see the Bloody Bride and her company hanged. I had preferred the insults. This false quiet reeked of hypocrisy.

  We had not gone far when a voice shattered the silence.

  “Your Majesty, wait!”

  I could not believe my ears—it was Korus. What is he doing?

  “What is it?” Syrid glared at his Royal Scriber.

  For an instant, I entertained the mad hope that Korus had regained his senses, that his next words would save us somehow. I should have known better.

  “If we wait until the morrow, we can make a better example of them,” Korus said. “Let me spread the word, gather the entire city. We can burn them in the Commoncourt on a pyre made of their own vile books of sorcery, to show the people what happens to traitors. Give me one more day, Majesty, and I will see that they get what they deserve.” He gave me a long look as he spoke those last words—savoring his victory, no doubt.

  They have the books. Despair overpowered whatever comfort the prospect of surviving another day might have provided. If any of Bryndine’s women remained free, they could have rallied the Scribers with Fyrril’s journal. Without proof, though, the Council would never lend their aid. If the Burnt had the books, they had won.

  The King smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “Yes. Yes, that would please me. After sunset tomorrow, I think, so all can see the flames.” He raised his voice to address the audience. “They will burn!”

  Syrid’s words rang throughout the throne room, echoing off the high ceiling as if spoken by a hundred voices at once. But only I heard the full extent of the echo—not a hundred voices, but a thousand, tens of thousands. The invisible voices all throughout the city and the surrounding countryside joined as one, hate-filled and savage, and chanted three words I had heard many times before: “All will burn.”

  It was very likely true; there was no one left to stop them. Soon enough, they would feed all of us to the flames—not just me, not just Bryndine and her company, but the entire Kingsland. The memory of King Erryn watching a verdant forest burn black came to me then, and as I looked upon the faces of the mob, twisted with scorn and judgement, I could think only one thing:

  We deserve it.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The sad truth is, we brought all of this upon ourselves.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  Bryndine paced in her cell. “Why are they doing this, Scriber? Why hold trials and executions? Why not simply tear open the ground beneath our feet, or destroy the city with lightning? Do they lack the power?”

  That would be too quick, I thought. Too painless. “What does it matter?” I asked. “There is nothing we can do to stop them now.”

  Bryndine ignored my answer. “And if their sorcery is not strong enough to do that, they could attack in force, lay siege to the baronies. They have the King and the Army in their grasp. They could overwhelm us in days if they attempted anything more than these raids. What stays their hand?”

  From my own cell across the hall, I could see into hers. She marched by the door, disappeared from sight, then moments later marched by again. Everything above her shoulders was hidden from sight; she was taller than the doorway. The other cells I could see were empty, and as best I could tell we were alone. This was the upper level of the White Cells, where important prisoners were kept; common thieves and murderers would be on the lower floor. If there were others near us, they chose to stay silent while Bryndine mused endlessly on the motives of the Burnt.

  I sighed. “You are thinking like a soldier, Bryndine. The Burnt are not soldiers. They aren’t seeking some sort of strategic victory. They don’t want to take the kingdom for themselves, or wipe it from the land, or anything so simple.” What the Burnt did want was no mystery to me, not anymore. I had shared their memories, and felt their pain. It was not a subject I wished to dwell upon, not with my own death by fire fast approaching.

  But Bryndine would not relent until she understood. “What do they want, then, Scriber?”

  Rubbing at my temple, I said, “You must understand that they hate us. Not certain people, not only some of us—they hate every living person in the Kingsland.” And they should. “They want to destroy us, yes, but they want it to be slow, and painful, and terrifying. They want us to see our loved ones turn against us, and to be so confused and afraid that we fight amongst ourselves. They want us to suffer, as they have suffered.”

  Ducking her head beneath the doorframe, Bryndine gripped the bars of her cell and stared across at me. “You have heard them speaking of this?”

  “I saw… a vision. A memory. When Selvi and Elene burned their trees.”

  “Why? Why do they hate us?”

  When I closed my eyes, I could see Erryn standing under emerald leaves, his crown shining red with reflected fire. “Because we burned them alive. Because we destroyed their forest, and it drove them mad.”

  “What do you—” Bryndine’s voice cut off abruptly. Then, a moment later, “You mean the Burning.”

  “Of course I do.
Why else call themselves the Burnt?”

  “A thousand years have passed since then.”

  “They still remember. We burned only two trees today, and I felt it a thousand times over. I can’t imagine what it would have been like when the whole forest burned, but a thousand years would not be nearly long enough to forget. They will never forgive us.”

  “You speak as though we brought this on ourselves,” Bryndine said. “Even if Erryn burned their forest, should we die for the sins of our ancestors?”

  “I don’t know.” Despite all the pain they had put me through, it was hard not to feel some pity for the Wyddin—there was no justice in what had been done to them. I could not say the same for my own kind, not after what I had seen at our trial. “Perhaps our own sins are enough. You saw the people today. They will watch us burn and love it. You tried to save then and they are going to let you die. As Fyrril’s people let him die, let the Forgetting happen. The Burnt only gave them the excuse.”

  Bryndine shook her head. “No. They were afraid, confused, misled by their King. The Burnt have convinced them that enemies are everywhere. They do not all deserve to die. I am sorry for what was done to the Wyddin, but it does not excuse them.” Anger flashed in her eyes. “It does not excuse what they did to Genna.”

  That was a difficult thing to argue against, and I did not try. “Deserved or not, the Kingsland will burn. The Army took Fyrril’s books, and there is nothing we can do from these cells. The Burnt have already won.”

  “Ralsten knows the truth,” she said stubbornly. “He may still be able to do something.”

  I did not want to debate with her any longer; I just wanted to be left alone with my despair. “Maybe,” I said. “Either way, you and I will die tomorrow.”

  Bryndine opened her mouth to respond, but just then we both heard something—footsteps on the stairs. The guards must have heard us. The thought scared me, though I recognized how ridiculous that was. I was going to burn tomorrow, yet I was worried about being punished by an angry gaoler.

  Bryndine raised a finger to her lips as the footsteps grew louder; in the hallway now, coming towards us. A figure came into view—a man draped in a long black cloak, his face obscured by a deep hood and deeper shadows cast by the torches lining the hall. He stopped in front of my cell and drew back his hood.

  It was not a guard.

  “Hello, Korus,” I said. “Come to gloat?” I was not surprised to see him; he had never been magnanimous in victory. He could hardly have let me die without some final comment.

  Korus narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “Quiet, Lark.”

  “Please, tell me how much better… wait, what are you doing?”

  He had pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and now he took a long iron key in hand and inserted it into the lock. “What do you think? I’m freeing you.” He scowled as though the very idea was distasteful to him.

  “I can see that, but why?”

  He actually looked insulted at that. “Do you really think that little of me? I remember my oaths. I don’t intend to let another Forgetting happen.”

  “You spoke against us at the trial.”

  “Should I have taken your side and been thrown in here with you? A lot of good that would have done.” He rolled his eyes. “This is why I never liked you, Lark. Illias handed you your sponsorship; you never understood the game I had to play to earn my pin. Sometimes you have to say what people want to hear. If you had ever learned that, you might have been more cooperative at the trial, instead of antagonizing the King. You would have been hung immediately if I hadn’t suggested the public burning.” Pulling open the cell door, he looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

  “I suppose your company is preferable to burning to death,” I said, but I peered down the hall in both directions before stepping out, half-suspecting to see a guard waiting just out of sight.

  Korus snorted in amusement at my show of distrust. “This isn’t a trap, Lark. Much as I would like to see you beaten for trying to escape, that isn’t why I’m here.” He turned away from me to unlock Bryndine’s cell, and I stared at his back. It went against everything I thought I knew about the man, but I was starting to believe him. We just may get out of here alive, I realized.

  Bryndine backed away from the bars and eyed Korus intently. “Where do you intend to take us?” she asked. “The guards will not let us walk out of here.”

  The lock clicked and Korus opened the door for her. “To Lord Elarryd,” he answered. “The guards will not be a problem.”

  At the mention of her father, Bryndine’s guard dropped, and she ducked out of the cell. “My father is well? Is my mother with him?”

  “They are both safe, hidden in the Underground. We have been using the tunnels to get around the city.” He gestured for us to follow. “Quickly. We still have to free your friends.”

  When we reached the stairs, Korus paused to pull his hood back over his face. “The others are on the lower level, but they are not the only prisoners there. Do not say my name where it might be heard. No one can know I was here.” He started down the stairway.

  “The guards must have seen you at the entrance, though,” I said. “Won’t it be obvious that you freed us?”

  Korus shook his head. “They don’t know I am here. I did not pass that way. Quiet now, Lark. The less attention we draw the better.”

  His response raised half a hundred more questions, but I followed him down the stairs in silence. When we reached the bottom, Korus led us into a small guard chamber just before the cells. It was little more than a place to sit for whoever was on duty, a bare white room with a small table and two chairs. A worn brown rug lay on the floor beneath the table, doing precisely nothing to make the chamber cosier.

  “Wait here,” Korus said. “I will get the others. Best no one sees you.”

  Bryndine frowned. “Where are the guards? There should be someone here.”

  Korus grinned. “I’m afraid I may have confused their schedule somewhat. There is a double shift of men upstairs, and this level has been sadly neglected. But they will sort things out before long.”

  “Go, then,” I said, nudging him towards the door. “I’d very much like to not be here when they come.”

  When Korus was gone, Bryndine turned to me, and I recognized the worried lines around her eyes immediately. “Can we trust him, Scriber?”

  I spread my hands. “I wouldn’t have said so a few hours ago, but if this is a trick, I don’t know what he could possibly gain from it.”

  She nodded. “I had the same thought. We have no choice but to go along with him and hope we are right, I suppose, but I would feel better if I had my sword.”

  “So would I,” I said.

  It felt like hours before Korus crept back into the room, though it must have been only minutes. Sylla was the first through the door behind him, surveying the room with a suspicious frown. Only when she saw Bryndine did she allow herself to relax, as though letting out a breath she had been holding for hours. “Bryn. They said… I thought…” She swallowed and looked away, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. I did not often feel sympathy for Sylla, but I did then—it must have been torture for her, knowing Bryndine was in danger and being unable to help.

  “Dennon!” A red-haired blur pushed by Sylla and leapt at me, pulling me into a tight embrace. Deanyn’s voice caught in her throat as she whispered, “We thought you were dead.”

  I was unaccustomed to being greeted so affectionately, especially by women, and I tried to mask my awkwardness with humor. “I made you a promise. I was scared of what you might do to me if I didn’t survive.”

  She laughed into my chest, and I hesitated only briefly before wrapping my arms around her. I had assumed I would never see her again; it surprised me just how pleased I was to be wrong.

  After a moment, she released me and stepped back, looking me over to ensure that I was unharmed. Then, without any warning, she punched me hard in the shoulde
r. “I don’t like worrying, Scriber. Don’t do that again.”

  Rubbing my shoulder, I feigned an indignant scowl. “I assume you are speaking of my being taken against my will and sentenced to death?”

  “Yes. That.” She grinned, and I noticed for the first time how lovely she was when she did. Even in the dim torchlight her eyes sparkled with humor, bright and blue, striking in contrast against the red of her hair. I realized I was staring only when she quirked an eyebrow upward, and I yanked my gaze away, embarrassed.

  Looking beyond Deanyn towards the door, I saw Orya and Wynne standing just inside; there was no one else behind them. Apparently the Burnt had not captured many—only the women who had been near when Bryndine and I were taken. Wynne smiled at me when my eyes landed upon her, and it was a relief to see that she was all right. I had worried that she or Deanyn might have been hurt defending me.

  Orya tipped her head in the direction of the stairs. “Let’s go. Glad to see you ain’t dead and all, but if we don’t move, we’ll be back in those cells before long. I don’t much like bein’ locked up.”

  Bryndine stepped towards the door. “Orya is right. We have little time.”

  Korus raised a hand to stop her. “We leave through here.”

  Bryndine raised an eyebrow, but waited as he pushed aside the small table that sat in the middle of the room, then knelt and lifted the edge of the threadbare brown rug. Beneath, the outline of a wooden trapdoor was clearly visible. The confusion faded from Bryndine’s eyes. “The Underground. That is how you got in without being seen.”

  “I have never heard of a passage under the White Cells,” said Wynne.

  Korus’ mouth turned up into the smug smile I knew well, and he said, “You weren’t meant to. It is used for prisoners who must be jailed in secret, for political reasons. Only the King and his chief advisors knew of it. And the Justices, of course. But the King remembers nothing of late, and the Justices have joined with Lord Elarryd. None of our enemies know it exists.” He pushed back the rug and pulled the wooden door open. “Come—we don’t want to be found here.”