by Pearl North
Haly’s feet sank into the rich pile as she was brought to a wooden chair and made to sit. It was warm in here, though there was no fireplace. She heard the door shut behind her.
Glowing orbs set into the ceiling lit the room, which was paneled with golden brown wood. Red curtains obscured a window across from her, and between her and the window stood another chair, larger than hers and upholstered in leather. Beside that chair was a small, marble-topped table, and on the table sat a knife with a curved black blade and a small stone jar. No, she thought, and looked behind her in panic, but the guards were gone and the door had been shut.
She was about to leap up and try to open it, though she was sure it was locked, when another door, paneled like the room and invisible until now, opened. Through it stepped a very tall, very bony man in the black robes of an Eradicant, but with a ribbon of red running around the edge of the hood that was pushed back over his bald pate. He sat in the chair across from her and crossed his legs, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on his raised knee. For several minutes he simply sat there, regarding her with what seemed to be friendly curiosity. His eyes were almost colorless, like shards of glass faintly reflecting the light in the room. She had the feeling that despite his kindly expression, he could carve into her soul with them.
Her gaze slid unwillingly to the knife and jar on the table, and he caught her glance. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “These were left out from my last interview. It must distress you to see them here.” He stood and picked up the knife and the jar and crossed to a wall, where a touch of his hand sent a panel swinging out to reveal a cupboard. He put away the articles and shut the door. Turning around, he gave her a gentle smile. “I don’t think I’ll need them with you.”
He turned to another section of the wall and opened another cupboard door, from which he drew a flask and two glasses. Haly wondered just how many of these walls were actually walls. He returned to his chair and set the glasses down on the table. “I am Censor Siblea,” he said, uncorking the flask and pouring a ruby red liquid into the glasses. He turned to face her, holding out one of the glasses.
Though her body cried out with thirst, she shrank from the proffered beverage.
Siblea shook his head. “Don’t worry, I do not mean to poison you. It is only currant wine, infused with some healing herbs.” He took a drink from his own glass, then came closer and held her glass to her lips. “It’s very restorative.”
Haly didn’t see how she had much choice. She let the liquid slip past her lips. It filled her mouth with bursting deliciousness, and she eagerly drank more. If it was a drug, then he was taking it, too. And it couldn’t be poison for the same reason. Besides, why go to all this trouble and then just kill her?
Siblea resumed his seat and set the empty glasses on the table. “Halcyon the Libyrarian,” he said.
Haly shook her head, then found herself afraid to contradict him.
Siblea raised an eyebrow. “What is it, child?”
She licked her lips. “I’m only a clerk.”
Siblea’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a puzzled little shake of his head. He was still smiling.
“I’m not a Libyrarian, only a clerk.”
Siblea’s smile twisted with wry humor and he lifted his hands out in a magnanimous gesture. “Oh, well, it’s all the same to us Eradicants, you know.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, how long have you heard books talking to you?”
She decided right then that she would tell him anything he wanted to know. “As long as I can remember.”
Siblea nodded. “So as far as you know, you were born this way.”
“Yes.”
“Do you hear all books, or only certain kinds?”
“All of them.”
“What about other forms of writing”—he waved one hand vaguely—“letters and so forth.”
Haly nodded. “Those, too.”
“Pictures?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Siblea sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Maps?”
“Only the words on them.”
“How old are you, my dear? What do they call you at home—Halcyon, or—”
“Haly.”
“How old are you, Haly?”
“I’m fifteen years old.”
“When were you born?”
“In the hour of the Fly on the seventh day of the seventh month of the forty-ninth year of the Goat.”
Siblea stood and paced about behind his chair, chanting softly under his breath. He was setting her answers to rhyme, she realized. She wondered why he didn’t have attendants to do this for him, and then thought that perhaps he preferred to be the sole witness to his subject’s confession.
A warm glow suffused Haly, and despite herself, she relaxed. It was the wine, she realized. She was filled with a sense of well-being, a warm drowsiness in her body that nonetheless left her mind clear and free of anxiety. She found she welcomed his questions. She became eager to share all she knew of her ability. And perhaps that last part was not just the wine at work. No one but Clauda had ever believed her before. No one had ever shown curiosity about how she heard the books or why. It was its own kind of drug, this interest of his.
Siblea stopped pacing and murmuring and returned to his chair, looking at her closely. “Do you love your books very much?” he asked.
She gaped at him. How could an Eradicant ask such a question?
“I have thought a great deal about you Libyrarians and your books,” he said, acknowledging her surprise. “It seems to me that perhaps they are to you as cherished as our songs are to us. I’ve been to many a liberation. You are not the first to cry as the dead words are burned.”
By the Seven Tales, yes. She recognized him. He’d been the Eradicant at the far end of the table at the feast. The one she’d just finished serving when she saw Griome give Selene’s map to Michander. And he recognized her. A chill went up her spine.
Siblea pursed his lips. “But it is so foolish of you to put all your faith in a thing that can be destroyed. Perhaps your people have forgotten that they were once enslaved. Slaves know this. Rely on nothing that can be taken from you. A song, once learned, can never be taken, you see.”
Unless only one person knew the song, and that person died, thought Haly, but she kept silent.
Siblea stood again and paced behind his chair. He was warming to his lesson. Haly was reminded of Peliac, and a sudden knife-sharp homesickness—even for Peliac’s irritable pomposity—swept over her. But Siblea was not Peliac. He was kinder and more interesting.
“I’ve often wondered why those who read consider themselves superior to those who don’t, when it is the Song that is eternal, and the singers of the Song who wield the power of its teachings. But arrogance is the folly of the literate. It was Iscarion’s principal sin, of course—the failing that destroyed him and his followers; that nearly destroyed us all.” He paused and looked at her with his pale eyes, his expression unreadable. “Do you know the story of Iscarion and The Book of the Night?”
Enraptured, Haly shook her head. It had been days since she’d heard a story.
“I could sing it to you,” he said, “but I doubt you’d understand much of the verse, so I’ll tell you instead. When Yammon was yet a child, a slave right here in the Corvariate Citadel, he had a best friend, and that was Iscarion. The two grew up together, and in all that Yammon did, Iscarion was at his side. When Yammon led the Liberation, Iscarion was his second. And Iscarion, in defiance of the Ancients’ law, had learned to read.
“This was not entirely unknown. Despite the most barbarous oppression, some slaves always managed to learn, and sometimes they taught others. At the time of the Liberation, there was a sizeable population of Literate among us, and most of them were early followers of Yammon. They fought side by side with us to gain freedom, but once freedom was gained, things changed.
“The valiant warriors of the Liberation kept one Ancient alive. The Literate said th
at the knowledge confessed by this being—who was put to the question just as you have been, my dear—was too precious to leave to song. After all, Iscarion said, songs change, but writing is permanent. Yammon, beguiled by his love for his friend, put Iscarion in charge of the interrogation.
“Iscarion compiled all that he learned in a book, and he called it The Book of the Night, in reference to the long darkness of slavery and the new promise of freedom brought by Yammon. But when Yammon said, ‘Come, brother, share with us what you have learned,’ he would not tell him. Iscarion said, ‘You are illiterate. I risked everything you have risked, and I have risked more, for I learned to read. Let to all come the benefit of their efforts. Let the Literates, who have risked more than those who sing, reap the benefit of their effort. The Singers are not worthy; it is we, the Literate, who conquered the masters.’
“And Yammon said, ‘Then let us all be Literate. If you learned, so can I. Teach us all.’
“But Iscarion refused, saying that those who learned in slavery had risked their lives, but those who would learn now risked nothing. ‘Let the Singer sing and the Literate rule,’ he said.
“At last Yammon saw the error of his love. He had thought Iscarion was a brother, but Iscarion held himself above Yammon. These two who had fought side by side for liberation now fought each other, and the followers of Yammon fought the Literate and defeated them. Many called for Iscarion’s execution, for the execution of all the Literate, who would make themselves masters. But Yammon knew mercy, and in remembrance of the bond Iscarion betrayed, he allowed his former friend to leave the Corvariate Citadel and take his people with him.
“The Literate left the citadel with their book. They went to the city of Chaldoa, and to prove their superiority they built a Maker of Eggs. ‘Soon we will have all the power in the world,’ they said, ‘and we will go back to the Corvariate Citadel and we will take what is ours, and we will enslave the Singers.’
“But by their pride were they damned. They built the Maker of Eggs, and it exploded and all were killed but for Iscarion, who fled with his cursed book of stolen knowledge, and was never seen again.
“Yammon saw the fire that purified the Literates’ sin, and he wept for Iscarion’s betrayal and the knowledge lost through pride. In his sorrow the Song sent him a prophecy, that one day The Book of the Night would be found and a Redeemer would come, a child of Iscarion for whom text is song. This Redeemer would revive the murdered Word and restore to the Singers what had been stolen from them.”
So the Eradicants did want The Book of the Night, and not just to destroy it. They wanted what was inside it, just like everybody else. “Is that why you haven’t destroyed the Libyrinth yet?” she asked. “Because it might hold The Book of the Night? That’s why you burn the books one by one, isn’t it?”
Siblea smiled, and Haly’s stomach turned. “Of course,” agreed Siblea. “But thanks to you, we will not need to tolerate the Tomb of Dead Words much longer.”
She thought she’d throw up, but there was little enough in her stomach. All she could do was cough and retch.
“There now, my dear,” Siblea said, and patted her on the shoulder. “All will be well, you will see. The Redemption is for everyone, and once you have accomplished it, you and your brethren will rejoice in your liberation.”
Her?
A child of Iscarion, for whom text is song.
Siblea knelt at her side so that his eyes were level with hers. “You are a very important person, Haly.”
The Ayorite in the Bathrobe
The queen of Ilysies sighed.
Clauda stared hard at her own hands. She was afraid to move. Selene had abandoned her in a foreign land. What was she going to do now?
“Oh, go after her, child,” said Queen Thela. Clauda looked up at her, and Thela nodded. “Maybe you can make her see reason. Goddess knows I never could.”
Clauda caught a glimpse of Selene leaving the pillared courtyard. She followed her to a large yard that was surrounded by barracks. Soldiers practiced drills in the yard, marching in formation, each wielding a weapon that looked like a cross between a rifle and a mind lancet. She spotted Vorain at the far end of the yard, conducting target practice. A row of soldiers aimed their weapons at piles of gourds stacked upon the ground, and at Vorain’s word, twisting rays of white-blue holyfire sprouted from the weapons, reducing the gourds to smoking fragments. The air filled with crackling noise and the smell of holyfire drifted across the yard.
Selene stood beside a gate to a smaller practice yard, watching the drill. Clauda walked up to her and grabbed her by the sleeve. “What in the Seven Tales was that all about?” she demanded.
Selene glared at her and wrenched her arm out of Clauda’s grasp. “I could ask you the same. What do you think you’re doing?”
“It’s a good plan,” protested Clauda.
Selene sneered. “It’s her plan. And if you believe everything she tells you, then you’re even more naive than I am.” Selene nodded at the soldiers practicing in the yard. “See those weapons? It’s because of my research that she has them. She assured me she’d use the knowledge to heat homesteads in the uplands—the winters there are harsh. But she lied. She does that very well.” Selene spun around again and stalked off, her black robes billowing out behind her.
Clenching her jaw, Clauda followed Selene. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Vorain take notice of their passage and call to one of her lieutenants. “Take over for me, Galatea,” she said.
This one, a fraction of the size of the yard they’d just left, sported a low ring of stone filled with sand. A rack against the barracks wall held knives and other things that Clauda could only identify as oddly shaped strips of padded leather with buckles. As Clauda closed the distance between them, Selene removed her robe, depositing it on a nearby bench. Her smallclothes soon followed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Clauda demanded, coming to a halt beside her. The smell of the holyfire had made her dizzy. At least, she thought it was the holyfire. Selene was naked. Clauda stared. How could someone look so regal without a stitch on?
Selene ignored her and began taking items from the rack and buckling them on. It was armor, Clauda realized. Leather coverings for the neck, the wrists, the belly, and groin—anyplace where a knife wound might prove fatal.
“If we don’t work together, Haly is doomed,” Clauda whispered.
Selene shot her a look full of daggers. She secured bracers to her forearms with quick, brutal movements. Staring over Clauda’s head, she said, “Fancy a match?”
“Not when you have that look in your eyes,” said Vorain, who stood behind Clauda.
“I’ll take you on,” said another voice. They all turned to see a woman standing beside the rack of knives. She was a few years older than Selene, her dark Ilysian hair tied back severely. She was fully as tall as Selene, but of a broader build. Her chin was blunt rather than pointed, and her eyes were light hazel in color.
“Uh-oh,” murmured Vorain, but Selene stepped toward the newcomer. “Jolaz,” she said in a tightly controlled neutral tone. “It’s been a long time.”
“And I’ve been practicing,” the other woman replied, eyeing Selene with amused disdain. “What about you? There can’t be much call for knife-fighting at the Libyrinth.”
Selene fastened the last catch on her leather armor. “Some things you don’t forget,” she said. “Suit up. Vorain will referee for us.”
As Jolaz changed into her armor, Vorain took Selene aside. “This is reckless, Selene, even for you. What’s happened?”
Clauda couldn’t make out Selene’s murmured reply, but evidently Vorain’s words had little effect, for as soon as Jolaz was ready, the two combatants went to the sandpit, where they slowly circled each other, both of them holding short, curve-bladed knives at their sides. Reluctantly, Clauda and Vorain walked to the edge of the arena to watch.
“Who is that?” Clauda whispered to Vorain.
“Jolaz. The heir.�
�� There was a troubled note in the soldier’s deep voice.
“Is she . . . Selene’s sister?”
“No. The queen appoints her successor as she chooses. Often it is a family member, but not always. In this case . . . Jolaz has been a servant in the palace from birth. As a little girl she served the queen as a scribe. At twelve she was appointed heir.”
“Is that why Selene is mad at her mother?”
In the ring, Jolaz lunged at Selene, who danced backward and made several short, slashing movements with her blade.
Vorain looked at Clauda and raised an eyebrow. “Not much gets past you, does it?”
“I don’t know about that,” muttered Clauda, “but you’d have to be blind, deaf, and witless not to figure out that something is wrong between them.”
“Your mistress is jealous of Jolaz, but not over the throne. It’s just—” Vorain hissed as Jolaz’s sweeping slash missed Selene’s rib cage by about three inches.
“Shouldn’t you break this up?” said Clauda. “Someone could get hurt.”
Vorain nodded. “I would if I could, little Ayorite. You ever try telling needle-noggin what to do?”
She had a good point. “So why is Selene jealous of Jolaz, then?”
Vorain sighed. “The heir learns statecraft at the monarch’s side. From the time that the choice for an heir is made, the two are nearly inseparable. When Selene was preparing for her initiation into womanhood, it was Mother Papilos who taught her the mysteries, because Thela had no time to spare. When Selene was ill with goose-spot fever, Thela only visited her once. But Jolaz spent every day with the queen. Of course Selene understood why, but . . .”
“She still couldn’t help feeling that Jolaz had stolen her mother,” Clauda finished.
Vorain nodded.
In the ring, Selene blocked Jolaz’s blade with an armored forearm, and swung her own blade out to carve a shallow furrow across the other woman’s bicep. “First blood,” said Vorain.