Scriber
Page 39
But I could still hear her words from the night before: we owe it to those who died to do more with our lives. She was gone, and I owed it to her to stop running away. I could not ride a horse, or shoot a bow, or wield a sword; I had not been fast enough or strong enough to save her when she needed me. But I could do this. I could do this for her, if nothing else. She would not be another Fyrril. While I lived, she would not be forgotten.
“No,” I said. There had been enough lies already; it was time for the Kingsland to know the truth. “She died for them. They will remember her.”
"I wish that were true, Scriber. I truly do." There was only hoplessness left in Sylla's voice. “But whatever you say, they will ignore it.”
“They won’t. Because you were right before: the King doesn’t write history. But neither do the people. I do.” Something burned inside me, a determination like nothing that I had ever felt before—the determination I had learned from Bryndine. “If Erryn and Aliana could turn the past into a lie with their stories, I can turn it into truth with mine. I will write of what she did here today until my fingers cannot hold a quill. I will speak of her courage until my voice is gone. And they will remember.”
I swept my eyes over the faces of the women around me, and when I spoke again my voice was so strong that I could hardly believe it was mine. “You do not have to stand by while the people forget. Help me. Tell them of what happened here, and of the women who died to save them. Tell them of Bryndine, and of Selvi, and Genna, and Wynne. Tell them of the Wyddin and the Burning, so that it can never happen again. Tell them the truth. Make them remember.”
Deanyn smiled at me, pride shining in her eyes, and she said, “I am with you, Dennon.”
“And I,” said Leste. Beside her, Elene nodded without speaking, never looking away from Selvi’s body.
Orya flashed her wild grin. “Never could keep my mouth shut anyway.”
Only Sylla gave no reply, staring at Bryndine through the flames of the pyre. And then she turned, and met my eyes, and nodded, just once. “We will not let them forget,” she said softly.
We stayed there for a long time after that, until the last of the flames died. Until all that was left of Bryndine Errynson burned away.
You will be remembered, I promised, as the last embers smouldered into ash.
A Scriber never forgets.
Epilogue
Scriber Elyse closed the journal and looked over her shoulder at the statue. Not for the first time, she wondered what she had done to earn this opportunity.
Reading Scriber Dennon’s words always made her ask the same question. There were other artists, better known and more prestigious than she, more suited to sculpt such a beloved figure. Indeed, when the Children had come to Elyse with the commission, she had thought it a joke. She had been pinned in the School of Arts only two years before, and one needed decades of experience, she had been told time and time again, to truly become an artist of worth.
She had impressed her teachers at the Academy with her statue of the renowned High Commander Tenille, that much was true. She had resisted the urge to make the woman young and strong, as was so often done with heroes. Instead, Elyse had sculpted her with a lined, weathered face, full of cunning and experience. When the ninth Barbarian Incursion had begun, Tenille had already been a grandmother, but still she had led the Army with a firm and wise hand. Remembering her for that had seemed more important to Elyse than making her beautiful. But a single statue hidden away at the Academy hardly merited the attention of the Children.
Her second commission was perhaps better known, a statue of King Elarryd the Golden, for a small park in the Kingscourt. It was good work, certainly, but there were many statues of the man. Of course there were. He was the King who had rebuilt the Kingsland after the dark final year of King Syrid’s reign, and allied with the Wyddin to bring life back to the realm’s wasted fields and farms. He had named Tenille his High Commander, and with her guided the realm to victory in the eighth and ninth Incursions. He was among the most beloved Kings in history. The statue would have been liked no matter its quality.
No, the statues of Elarryd and Tenille had not earned Elyse a place among the most respected Scribers of the Arts. They were well made, but there were many others. So when the request had come for her to create a piece for the newly rebuilt Old Garden, she had thought her friends from the Academy were playing a trick on her. She had been even more certain of it when she read the name of the statue’s subject—far too ironic a choice for the normally humourless Children, if it was to stand in the Old Garden of all places.
But some weeks after she had dismissed it as a jest, the Eldest Brother and Sister had come to her themselves. The Children liked her work on other figures from the period, they had said, and felt it fitting, given those other pieces, that she be the one to sculpt this statue for them. When Elyse asked about their choice of subject, the Eldest Sister had only said, “The Mother is as wise as she is forgiving,” and the Eldest Brother had followed with, “And the Father blesses all those who protect his children.” They were adamant that this was what they wanted for the Old Garden’s antechamber.
Elyse had accepted, of course. Not for the prestige or the extremely generous pay—or not only for those things—but for the chance to sculpt a childhood idol, a near mythical figure in the Kingsland’s history.
Research was always her first step, to truly get to know the subject before she ever set chisel to stone, and so Elyse had read every word Dennon Lark had ever written. The breadth of the man’s work was staggering. He wrote with confidence and authority on nearly every subject imaginable, every period of history. And if sometimes he was not as impartial as an historian ought to be, if he made the occasional caustic remark, or at times scolded the world for not remembering certain things he thought it should, what did it matter? He had lived through and recovered more of the Kingsland’s history than any Scriber before or since. He had earned the right to make his opinions known. It made it easier for her, actually, that he let his personality saturate his work.
Few had lived as eventful a life as Scriber Dennon, or done so much for the realm. He had married one of the wealthiest women in the Kingsland, and he and his wife had put much of their fortune into charitable works. One fund they had started, known as Wynne’s Trust, still paid admission to the Academy for any who desired it. It was this fund, in fact, that had paid Elyse’s own entry to the School of Arts. That was another reason she had taken the commission—to show her gratitude. She liked to think it was what Scriber Dennon would have wanted.
It was not works of charity that Dennon Lark was best remembered for, though. This was a man who had counted kings among his closest friends; who had been named an honorary Storyteller by the Salt Mountain clans; who had travelled over the Dragon’s Sea to the lands beyond, and across the Wasted Plains to the ruins of Old Elovia. He was the Kingsland’s first emissary to the Wyddin, and after the death of his mentor, the respected Master Illias Bront, he became the Academy’s first unanimously chosen Master of History.
And most importantly, Dennon Lark had saved the Kingsland in its time of greatest need, from the mad Wyddin known as the Burnt. It was this part of his life that interested Elyse more than anything, that gave her the truest insight into her subject. She had read the journals from the period over and over again as she worked, dozens of times.
And now she was almost done. It was very close to perfect, she thought, standing from her desk and crossing the room to survey her work.
The statue was tall—the journals had been clear on that. Elyse had to clamber up a ladder to reach the head so she could chip slightly at the hair, making sure it looked as it should: short and efficient. Moving down, she set her chisel against the jaw. It had to be firm, determined; a small scrape there, and then the line was right. Leaning against a broad stone shoulder, she examined the eyes. There was a power in them that she hoped others would see; it influenced the entire face. Not a beautiful face,
true, but one that suggested deep strength.
Finally, she stepped down and returned to the books, checking one last time. The writings were the best way for her to measure her work, to ensure she had captured her subject correctly.
And Dennon Lark had written many, many things about the subject of this statue.
Elyse knew his words almost by heart; she could almost see through his eyes. And when she looked at the statue now, looked with Dennon Lark’s eyes, she knew that it was done.
She had always attempted to sculpt her subjects as they had been in life—as people rather than figures of legend—but the statue looked like legend all the same: a woman nearly eight feet tall, broad-shouldered and powerful, holding aloft in one hand a sword that most could not have lifted with two. She might have been a giant from the dawn of the world, with the strength of kings and heroes behind her eyes.
The statue looked like legend because this woman had never been anything less. She had battled monsters and inspired heroes. Those she had led went on to command armies and advise rulers and sail uncharted seas, taking her story with them wherever they travelled. Ballads of her sacrifice were still sung in taverns and before kings and queens; tales of her valor were still told to children before bedtime even now, more than a hundred years after her death.
She was known as the Soldier Princess, though she had not, in truth, lived to be a princess; some—very few—named her the Bloody Bride. She was called the Seeker of Truth and the Sword in the Forest, Beastslayer and Promisekeeper, martyr and savior and saint. She was called all these things, and many others.
Her name was Bryndine Errynson.
And she would never be forgotten.
About the Author
Ben Dobson is a Canadian fantasy author from the beautiful province of British Columbia. When he isn’t writing top notch fantasy novels, he can probably be found playing Dungeons and Dragons or watching a Joss Whedon show or something similarly awesome and stereotypical.
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Email: benificus@gmail.com