The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

Izgard leaned close and laid a kiss on his scribe’s forehead. The man may have lied and prevaricated earlier, but surely now he spoke the truth? Gamberon should have come to him. Should have shared with his one master and his sworn friend all his fears about the Coil. Instead he had taken the crown from the convent at Sirabayus, where it had been kept safe for fifty years by the holy sisters of Martyr Ehlise and, with his own hands, tried to destroy it. By the time Izgard caught up with him on a dark, storm-lashed hillside a league east of the convent, his arms and chest were torn to shreds; flesh hacked, gouged, and split by the action of the barbs around the Coil.

  Weak, raving, and losing cup after cup of blood, Gamberon still might have lived if it hadn’t been for the fact that Izgard’s blade slipped between his ribs mere seconds after he released his grip upon the crown.

  Friends they had been, but a traitor was a traitor, and any man with desires upon the Coil was either a rival or a foe.

  Drawing back from the kiss, Izgard said to his scribe, “You want me to win this war, don’t you?”

  Sensing a subtle change in his king’s mood, Ederius was quick to nod. “Yes, sire.”

  “And you would do anything to help. Anything?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And you would not turn upon me like Gamberon. Try to destroy that which is mine?”

  Ederius took a short breath. For a second his face looked older and heavier, as if burdened by invisible weights upon his eyelids, nose, and cheeks. “No, sire. I cherish all that is yours. I would destroy nothing that belonged to my king.”

  “Swear it.” Izgard’s breath plumed white once more.

  And even before the water crystals faded to nothing, the scribe whispered, “I do.”

  Satisfied, Izgard nodded. The desire came upon him to touch Ederius’ face once more, but he checked himself. The business in hand wasn’t finished yet. Turning away from the desk, Izgard pulled himself up to his full height and began to move around the room.

  When he spoke to the scribe this time he did not look at him. “You know that in the coming weeks I plan to push the border raids farther and farther into Rhaize territory? I aim to steal through the mountains into the heart of Rhaize, and as soon as my feet hit level ground I’ll turn north toward the Mettle Sea and restake Garizon’s claim on Bay’Zell. I have confidence in my army. I know we will prevail. Yet many months of bloodshed lie ahead. Men will die—our men. Sons of Garizon, brothers to you and me, husbands to our women and fathers to our children, will find themselves cut down in the prime of their lives.

  “And although glory will belong to their eternal souls, their bodies will rot in shallow graves and their earthly remains will be claimed by Rhaize.”

  Izgard spun around to face his scribe. “Yet you and I both know that our men don’t have to die in such numbers. Yesterday at dawn in a little mountain village called Chalce, just beyond the Garizon-Rhaize border, I watched as nine of my brave men fought their way to victory over a force that outnumbered them ten to one.”

  “A force! Sire, they were defenseless villagers, not a force!” Ederius actually rose from his desk. “It was slaughter, not battle. Women and children were killed along with all the rest.”

  “Sit, Ederius.” Izgard kept his tone gentle, though in truth he felt annoyed. Aware that his anger was building and not wanting to hurt Ederius again, he moved farther away. Picking a spot against the far wall where he could see but not touch the scribe, he said, “You were there, weren’t you? You were behind those men. You saw what they saw, you made them do what they did.”

  Ederius went to speak, but Izgard waved him to silence.

  “It wasn’t the same as the times before, was it? The men acted in unison, like a close-knit fighting force. They warned each other of dangers, watched out for each other’s backs. Their desire to destroy was still the same, and their bodies changed in the usual way, but their methods were different, more calculating. They fought and acted as one.”

  Izgard ran a finger along the rough coolness of the scriptorium wall. No castle or fortress he had ever stayed at had stone that felt as good as Sern. It had the texture of fossilized suede.

  Now that Ederius had the opportunity to say something, he chose not to. He sat, purple hands knotted on his desk, eyes either closed or gazing very far down, pressing his lips together as if afraid his tongue might turn on him and somehow force him to speak.

  Nodding as if the scribe’s silence were the answer he looked for, Izgard said, “When I saw what those men had done and with what speed and efficiency they had done it, I said to myself, Ederius has been working with the Coil. No longer just repeating patterns he had rubbed from the outer rim, but using the structure itself as the base for his design—just as we discussed all those weeks ago in Veizach. Just as he promised me he would do.”

  Pushing himself away from the wall, Izgard began to move toward the scribe. Each word he spoke brought him one step closer to the desk. “That’s what you did yesterday morning, wasn’t it? You worked from the Barbed Coil itself.” Izgard came to a halt by the pedestal that held the crown. A thick sheet of linen had been thrown over it, like a shade to block out the sun. Red handprints were stamped around the cloth’s edges. Ink, thought Izgard. Yet it looked just like blood.

  Slowly, carefully, Izgard lifted the cloth from the Coil. As the crown emerged from beneath its linen wrap, the sun slipped out from behind a cloud, making the metal flash and sparkle like a crackling fire and causing specks of golden light to spray across the room.

  Ederius put his hands over his eyes.

  Izgard rubbed his fist over his mouth. His lips were wet with saliva. “Show me the pattern,” he said quietly, not really to the scribe at all. “You must keep no secrets from me. I own you and respect you, and as long as you do my bidding, I swear you will come to no harm. Now show me what I need to see and help me win the war.”

  Izgard heard wood scrape against stone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the scribe rise from his chair, watched him walk across the room, then bend at the waist as he reached down to open a chest.

  “You should not let what happened yesterday upset you, my friend,” Izgard called after him, feeling the need to say something kind now that there was no question he would get what he wanted. “War has many horrors. Innocents are often killed: we will not be the first army to make such tragic mistakes. Yet if we win the war swiftly, we will actually save lives—and not just those of our own Garizon sons. In a long, bloody war people on all sides die unnecessarily. The shorter and more decisive the war, the fewer the deaths.”

  Ederius pulled something from the chest, looked at it briefly, murmured a few words to himself or his God, and then walked back to his king. In his arms he held a square of parchment no bigger than two outstretched hands, and before offering it up to Izgard, he pressed it close to his heart.

  Izgard thought how beautiful he looked, like a holy man carrying a relic to his savior or a martyr poised to enter the underworld. It thrilled Izgard’s heart just to look at him. “Kneel before me,” he said, instinctively knowing the moment called for his scribe’s complete supplication.

  Ederius did what was asked. As his knees hit the stone, the sunlight withdrew from the room, sending shadows gliding in to fill the void. The light dimmed, the temperature dropped, the air rustled for a moment and then was still.

  The scribe held out the parchment.

  And as he did so, Izgard’s own words slipped from his lips. “The shorter and more decisive the war, the fewer the deaths.” They were spoken as part question, part excuse, part magic spell to ward off harm.

  T W E L V E

  T hat’s it, my dear. Don’t be afraid of adding a little more indigo to the pot. The darker the wax, the better Emith likes it.”

  Tessa glanced over at Mother Emith, who was sitting facing the fire. “I don’t understand why it has to be so dark.” As she spoke Tessa wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip. Standing so close to the fire, stirring a tub of be
eswax that sat in a bath of boiling water, was beginning to make her a little uncomfortable. The wax was taking forever to melt.

  Mother Emith settled back in her chair. A question had been asked—though granted it was about scribing, not cooking—and Mother Emith liked nothing better than to give answers. “Well, my dear, if you’re scraping a design in wax with a stylus, then unless the wax is as dark as you can make it, you’re not going to be able to see your own work. Try running your fingernail against a white candle—see how far that will get you. Won’t be able to spot a thing.”

  The old lady had a point there. Nodding, Tessa added a few more drops of indigo to the wax. The dark blue plant dye rippled through the translucent wax, darkening on contact. Emith was running low on parchment, and rather than use up his remaining supplies, he had decided to make a scribe’s tablet for Tessa so she could practice pen movements and knotwork as much as she liked and not have to worry about wasting any more vellum. Just this morning, Emith had hollowed out a square-shaped wooden block and given it to her to fill with wax. Now all she had to do was dye the wax and pour it into the block. Mother Emith was guiding her, as always, and together they were getting the job done nicely. Later there would be supper and tale telling.

  For over a month now Tessa had been living with Emith and his mother in their narrow little town house on the south side of Bay’Zell.

  Ravis had left in the middle of the night, pausing only to lay a handful of gold coins on the dresser and warn Tessa one more time to keep herself safe. After he had gone, Tessa wondered what she would do with herself. Alone in a world where she knew nothing and no one, she would surely take a wrong turn down a dangerous street and run straight into Izgard’s harras.

  Surprisingly, the weeks had passed safely, quietly, and quickly. Following Ravis’ warning, Tessa never ventured far outside, and for the first week or so she waited for familiar feelings of restlessness, of being cooped up in one place and needing to be on the move, to take hold of her. Nothing came. In fact, as the days went by she found herself more and more content to be where she was. She liked sitting at the large oakwood table and learning about scribing from Emith, hearing about history and design one moment and washes and glazes the next. She enjoyed helping with the meals: slicing, dicing, boning, and scraping. And although no amount of teaching would ever make her a master chef, she had developed quite a talent for chopping things with Ravis’ knife.

  Tessa felt more at home, more at ease, in this strange household, presided over by an old woman sitting in the center of the kitchen who never left her chair, than anywhere else she had ever called home. Part of it was her newfound ability to just sit and listen and learn. She wasn’t afraid to trace a finger over the tabletop and follow the grain in the wood. When Emith sketched something to illustrate a point, Tessa could concentrate fully on what he was doing and saying without fear that her tinnitus would start.

  Her old life had been a series of mad dashes—calls to be made, meetings to be scheduled, short-lived relationships that always seemed to be beginning or ending with no middle to speak of in between—and she had lived that way for so long, she had assumed that was who she was and what she wanted to be. Only now was she beginning to suspect that without the fear of tinnitus hanging over her, she was turning into someone else. Still herself, only different, more thoughtful.

  Her days now revolved around food: its preparation, cooking, and eating. Breakfast would be something hot, usually whatever was eaten the night before braised slowly overnight so the meat was so tender, it fell off the bone and the vegetables disintegrated into soft, nameless lumps that all tasted the same. At midday there would be cold pastries filled with creamed herrings, or smoked mackerels mashed with butter on heels of freshly baked bread. The rest of the afternoon was usually dedicated to the preparation of supper.

  In the four weeks Tessa had stayed at Mother Emith’s house, she had yet to eat an evening meal that hadn’t taken five hours to prepare. Sauces simmered in tiny sauce pots, meat roasted on a broad spit over the fire, fish floated, belly up, in kettles filled with liquor, and red cabbage, white cabbage, and sliced onions huddled together in shallow dishes catching steam. Smells built throughout the day like a growing darkness before a storm. And during the final hour before eating, Tessa had learned to put down whatever she was working on, bring her chair close to the fire, and just sit and enjoy all the wonderful cooking fragrances, taking pleasure in anticipating the meal ahead.

  Nothing in the household happened fast. At first Tessa had felt a few twinges of impatience at Emith and his mother when she asked for things like hot water for a bath, soap to wash her face, or a cold drink of anything that wasn’t alcoholic. Now she realized that everything had to be done by hand: water had to be heated in a pot over the fire, so the meat would have to be moved aside, which meant the supper would be late to table. Soap had to be made in a tub in the yard, boiled down from bones and ash and other things Tessa didn’t care to think about, then scented with rosemary oil, kneaded, and formed into pats.

  Gradually Tessa’s expectations changed. Days were long but never full; food was to be savored, discussed, and enjoyed; and evenings were made for huddling close around the fire, telling old tales, brewing strong drinks, and nodding off to sleep in your chair.

  Wax candles were expensive, and tallow, which Tessa had learned was made from animal fat in much the same way as soap, burned with a flame that was too smoky and acrid to be borne for too long, so although Emith never stopped teaching and showing Tessa things in the daylight, after dark they didn’t do much work.

  Sometimes, when the fire dimmed, ready to be banked, and Mother Emith was resting, though not sleeping, in her chair, Emith would tell Tessa some of the history of manuscript illumination. After pouring them both cups of mulled arlo, more to hold between their hands for warmth and comfort than to drink, he would pull his stool up to the hearth and whisper stories of bygone days.

  He told of how all the great scribes traditionally came from across the Mettle Sea, from an island off the island of Maribane. The Anointed Isle, it was called. It was where all the great scribes were trained: in an ancient monastery linked to the mainland by a long, sandy causeway that was completely covered by the sea at high tide. The scribes were monks in those days, boasting names that sounded as vivid and intricate as the patterns they created: Brother Ilfaylen, Brother Fascarius, Brother Mavelloc, and Brother Peredictine.

  “The Holy League used to believe it was wrong for a scribe to try to reproduce the perfection of God’s work,” Emith began one night as he and Tessa sat around the fire. “Scribes were men of God first, men of letters second. They were forbidden to draw anything from nature. Instead they were forced to create new forms themselves that didn’t rival any living plant or animal the four gods had created.

  “So scribes began to illustrate their work with patterns and designs that borrowed shapes from nature, without copying them precisely. It wasn’t long before scribes began to draw creatures from their own imaginations: four-legged animals with long bodies, flat ears, and curling tails. Serpents with gold eyes and segmented bodies and scales that never quite met at the edges, revealing dark underbellies beneath.”

  Emith shivered. “These paintings only pleased the Holy League for so long, though, miss. They began to see heathenness in the bright eyes and full curves of the scribe’s creations. Rumors started that those on the Anointed Isle who had taken the art of creating patterns to its highest form were sorcerers. Demons who drew the devil out through the nibs of their pens, set him free from the black ink in their jars.”

  Emith paused for a moment. Tessa noticed his hands were shaking.

  “Over the next few centuries, those on the Anointed Isle became more and more isolated, flouting the Holy League and common opinion alike. Rumors increased, terrible happenings were reported. The abbot at the time died suddenly one night in his sleep. Then one of the brothers at the abbey set about reforming the Anointed Isle: burning all
the old manuscripts and bringing in artists from Rhaize and Drokho to teach the scribes the new lifelike styles that had become so popular there. He forbade anyone from drawing the old patterns ever again and reestablished relations with the Holy League, putting all heathenness behind him.

  “Brother Ilfaylen was his name. And in his day it was said that he was the greatest scribe that ever lived. He didn’t mix pigments, he wove spells of light and shade.”

  Hearing Emith speak so wistfully of the man’s work made Tessa long to see it. “What happened to Brother Ilfaylen to make him change?” she asked, fingers curling around her arlo cup, gaze darting to Mother Emith, checking that her words hadn’t disturbed her.

  Emith shrugged. “I don’t know, miss. They say he left the Anointed Isle for half a year and traveled to the continent to work on an illumination for Hierac of Garizon. Yet no trace of that commission has ever been found, and even though he wrote books and memoirs afterward, he never mentioned the trip.”

  “Was he involved in sorcery?” Tessa thought for a moment, then added, “Was Deveric?”

  Emith chose that moment to stand up. “Miss, I know nothing of such things. I am a scribe’s assistant, not a scribe.”

  It was always the way with Emith. He could tell her the most intricate details about how to apply gold leaf to a page—how the surface should be raised first with a thick, chalky paint called gesso, how pink earth should be added if the work called for richer tones, and how either agate, metal, or bone could be used to burnish the gold if a patron requested a finish with high luster—yet he would tell her nothing of the reasons behind it all.

  Sometimes Tessa thought that Emith had deliberately avoided learning anything about the true nature of Deveric’s work: if his master was up to something ungodly, he didn’t want to know about it, making it easier for him to believe his master was a good man. Sometimes Tessa thought her suspicions had been wrong and the patterns were just patterns after all. But every now and then something would happen to make her stop and think and guess again.