by J. V. Jones
Thorn, with its hillsides dotted with meadows, its soil heavy with clay and rich with lime, and its people so full of local pride that they taught their children to tell strangers they lived but a valley away from God. No poets, philosophers, or artists had ever come from Thorn. Farmers, grape growers, dairymen, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, and charcoal burners crowded in the taverns at night for a platter of smoked goose livers and a glass of berriac. The town black sheep was a man who made clocks. The town prostitute was a sensible matron called Amy, and every man in Thorn, Camron included, had partaken of her delights at some point in their lives.
Thorn was where his father’s ancient stablehand Phelas had first sat him on a horse and showed him how to ride; where Mari of Merly, the old Vennish cook who knew only a handful of Rhaize words, most of them curses, had plied him with gooseberry tarts until he felt sick and then forced clove oil down his throat until he felt better. It was where he had slit open his cheek trying to shave like his father, broken his arm trying to fight like Hurin, and shaved his head in an attempt to look like Mollas the Bald, the man who was his father’s second at Mount Creed and widely held to be the greatest fighter in Rhaize in his day.
All gone now. All those fine, mountain-bred people gone.
Phelas, Mari of Merly, Amy, Mollas, Sterry the clock maker, Barleaf the innkeeper, Dorsen, master of his father’s estate: so many friends, casual acquaintances, and loved ones, dead. Men whom Camron had grown up waving to in the streets or fields, women he’d nodded to in the chapel or marketplace, children he’d raced and fought with in the forests, stables, and limestone quarries: all slaughtered by Izgard’s men.
Camron grabbed at the soil, filling his palms with its warm, grainy wetness, plowing it inward toward his heart.
What was it the messenger had said? “Izgard has taken Thorn. By all accounts he sent his harras in first to kill those who refused to surrender. You should be proud of your countrymen, my lord, for not one of them gave in.”
What he really meant was that none had escaped alive. The harras had killed them all. They hadn’t been given the chance to surrender; Camron felt the truth of it in the soft insides of his bones. The Garizon king had first killed his father. Now he had destroyed his home.
And for what? A claim, centuries old, never mentioned, never pressed, that linked the Thorn family to the barbed Garizon crown.
Camron punched the wet earth. He and his father had done nothing to deserve this. The townsfolk of Thorn had done even less. For centuries the Garizon-Rhaize border had shifted back and forth across the Vorce Mountains, and the town had belonged to both countries in its time—named Thorn or Thoren, depending on who held it. Yet fifty years ago, eight weeks to the day after Berick won his victory at Mount Creed, the townsfolk met in the market square and declared themselves for Rhaize. And from that day on the town had been known by its Rhaize name: Thorn.
Only now there were no townsfolk, and without them there was no name.
Camron shook his head so hard, his entire body shook with it. He couldn’t bear the thought of Izgard’s boots sinking into Thorn soil. He couldn’t bear what his mind showed him every time he closed his eyes to blink. Heaving himself up, he struggled to his feet. Exhaustion rippled across his chest, but he fought it. Wiping the dirt from his cheek and hands, he began the long walk back to the manor house.
“It’s too early to move against Izgard yet,” Ravis had said only two hours earlier in the flickering candlelight of the great hall. “Half of the mercenaries won’t arrive in Bay’Zell until next week, and I haven’t finished training the ones we do have. Your men may be excellent knights and horsemen, but Izgard’s archers will shoot the horses from beneath them the moment they take the field. And a knight without a horse might as well paint a bull’s-eye on his breastplate and call himself a moving target. Though moving might be too generous a description. With the full body armor that’s popular in Rhaize these days, a knight has a better chance of staying on the ground and rolling to safety than he does trying to stand and walk away.”
Camron’s back stiffened as he walked. How he hated Ravis of Burano’s cool, mocking voice. The man picked apart all that was good with his biting wit, excusing a hundred years of military development with a single, sarcastic remark. He didn’t care about people and causes. He thought only of himself.
War was about more than tactics: it was about heart and soul and belief. Rhaize knights hadn’t won victory at Mount Creed because they had superior expertise; they’d won because they had a great leader they believed in and were fighting to defend their families and homes.
Camron brushed his wet hair from his face. He had no home now and nothing and no one to believe in. Responsibility was the one thing he had left. He owed something to those who had been slaughtered because they lived in the town bearing his name. He had to take action—leave right now. Tonight. It couldn’t wait. He owed it to Mari, Amy, Phelas, and the clock maker. He owed it to himself.
The pale golden glow of the manor house came into view on the horizon, and Camron hurried toward it, a dark figure on a dark night, perfectly alone.
T H I R T E E N
T he scribe sat alone in his scriptorium. Pigment pots and brushes lay waiting to be cleaned, the shutters needed closing for the night, and hides hung from a hook set into a ceiling beam, waiting to be cut to size. From as far back as he could remember, from his first eight years spent growing up in Garizon and the next twenty spent in study on the Anointed Isle, Ederius had been taught that it was wrong to be idle. His mother had feared idleness would lead to sin. The holy fathers on the Anointed Isle had sworn it would turn him into a weak-minded fool. Yet right now Ederius found himself wishing that he had not been quite so hardworking all his life. Hard work had led him to this.
Sending the chair legs scraping backward as he stood, Ederius moved across the room toward the small trestle table that held the pure grain alcohol he used to clean his brushes. Even now he could not sit inactive for very long. Both his mother and the holy fathers had agreed upon one thing: idleness led to idle thought.
Izgard had not paid his daily visit yet, and as Ederius poured alcohol into a glazed bowl, he found himself listening for the first sounds of his king. When a wolf howled far in the distance, Ederius jumped at the noise, spilling alcohol over his fingers. The liquid tingled as it evaporated into nothing. Ederius attempted to shrug his fright away, but a needle of pain shot through his healing shoulder. Face crumpling, he shook his head.
He wished Izgard would come and get it over with. The pain he could stand, the blows he could stand, but the waiting was too much to bear. It turned him into a frightened old man.
Ederius grabbed the bowl, pressing his fingers hard against the glazed edge. He was an Anointed-trained scribe—he would not forget that—and nothing and no one could take that from him.
With a firm step, he walked back to his desk. After collecting all the pigment-caked paintbrushes in his fist, he dumped them into the bowl to soak them a while before cleaning.
One other thing that he must not forget was that he had brought this upon himself. Ambition had led him to the man who had then been known as Izgard of Alberach. Five years ago they had met. Izgard arranged a meeting in Veizach’s Arlish Quarter in a perfectly square room above an inn. The smell of the Veize wafted up through the open window as Izgard laid out his plans.
“You must work with me, Ederius. I need you. Gamberon tells me you are the best scribe in all of Garizon, the only one who knows the old patterns and the old ways. The only one who can help me. Garizon must have a king again. We must be strong. We are a great country, with great people, yet here we are trodden beneath so many boot heels that we barely remember our victories and have long forgotten our pride.”
Izgard knelt and took Ederius’ hand. “Do you not love your country, Ederius? Do you not want to see Garizon restored?”
In all his life Ederius would never forget the look on Izgard’s face as he’d asked those two
questions. His eyes were shining and his skin was flushed. He looked like an angel, and his touch was warm and full of need. Ederius was deeply moved. This brilliant young man needed him. As he gave his reply, Izgard raised, then kissed, his hand.
Even now, Ederius felt his heart ache at the memory. Izgard had been different back then. Ambitious, yes. Violent to those who opposed him, but fiercely protective of those he loved. Ederius still remembered the time he fell ill that first year, catching a chill from working long hours in cold, unheated rooms. Izgard was at his side night and day. He would let no one else take care of him, insisting on being the one who sat with him day and night, not sleeping until the fever broke some three days later. When Ederius finally woke, Izgard was there leaning over his bed. Tears glistened in the young man’s eyes.
“A gift,” he said, fingers brushing against Ederius’ cheek. “I have been given a precious gift. I don’t know what I would have done if you had died.”
Ederius closed his eyes. That seemed like a lifetime ago. When there were just he, Gamberon, and Izgard. The scribe, the scholar, and the man who would be king. Four good years passed until things turned. Gamberon had been worried for many months. The more he researched the Barbed Coil and its history, the more nervous he became. Late one night he burst into Ederius’ sleeping chamber. Spittle sprayed from his lips as he spoke.
“We cannot allow Izgard to take the crown. Come with me now to Sirabayus and help me destroy the Coil before another sunset darkens the Veize.”
Grabbing the paintbrushes in his hand, Ederius lifted them free from the alcohol. Pigment had turned the liquid red. With quick, almost frenzied movements, he began to scrub the brush heads clean.
He had loved Gamberon like a brother, but Izgard like a son. The choice was surprisingly easy. Gamberon left straight away, alone. Ederius waited in the darkness for one hour, counting seconds, then went to wake Izgard.
“You must make haste for Sirabayus,” he said. “Gamberon is on his way there to destroy the Coil.”
Ederius made a soft, rasping sound in his throat. It had been the longest night of his life. He had been unable to move. He sat in the darkness on the edge of Izgard’s bed, his bladder aching with fullness, his breaths shallow as a dying man, waiting.
Daylight came and half a day passed before Izgard returned. The Barbed Coil was tucked under his arm. Slivers of Gamberon’s tissue still clung to the barbs. Ederius remembered thinking it strange that Izgard had managed to carry the Coil all the way back from the convent without his own skin being broken. Izgard did not speak as he entered the room. He placed the crown on a chest, crossed to where Ederius sat, and smashed his fist into the right side of Ederius’ jaw.
Shaking his head, he left the room. “You did not come to me straight away,” he hissed, disappearing into the darkness beyond. “You gave him an hour’s start.”
Ederius raised his hand to his cheek as the memory of the old pain gripped him. It was first time Izgard ever struck him: the night he took possession of the Coil.
The door hinge creaked and Izgard stepped into the scriptorium. Lost in the past, it took Ederius a moment to come back. He had not heard his king approach.
“Ederius,” Izgard said softly, pushing hides out of his way as he walked forward. “I’m glad to find you still at your desk. We must talk about my plans for Thorn.”
Nodding, Ederius dropped his hand from his cheek and listened as Izgard spoke. Perhaps if he was lucky, his king would not strike him tonight.
“And this,” Emith said, handing Tessa a swath of cloth, “is the plant dye turnsole. As you see, this is pink, but turnsole plants can produce rich purples, too.”
Tessa took the small section of cloth from him. It felt stiff. Her fingertips came away deep pink where she touched it. “Someone didn’t do a very good job of fixing the dye,” she said.
Emith gave her a rather curious look. “It is the dye,” he said. “Clothlets are how most plant dyes are transported overseas. All I have to do now is put that small piece of cloth in a bowl of clarified egg white, let the pigment bleed out overnight, and then the next day I’ll have fresh pink paint to use for glazes or to add to other pigments.”
“Oh,” was all Tessa could think of to say as she regarded the small square of cloth with renewed appreciation. There was so much she didn’t know.
Emith had come back from the market loaded down with pigment samples to show her. Tonight he was teaching her about how to make the various inks and paints used in illuminating. He was very excited about the whole affair, so much so that he had even lit two fine wax candles, which gave out sweet-smelling, smokeless light. Mother Emith was resting in her chair. Supper had been eaten, pots had been cleared away, the fire was burning quietly on fuel of old, pressed wood, and a light rain pattered against the shutters like insects against glass.
“What’s in that?” Tessa asked, indicating a small cork-stoppered jar Emith had just taken from his pack. As the days went on, she found herself wanting to learn more and more about scribing. She wanted to know all the details.
Emith held up the jar to the light. “This is murex purple. It’s a stronger pigment than turnsole, though more expensive. It’s made from warm-water shellfish.”
“Shellfish?” Tessa took the stopper from the jar and let a drop fall on the back of her hand. The pigment was an inky purple.
“Oh yes,” Emith said, eyes twinkling. “There’s a pigment made from cuttlefish secretions, too.”
Tessa held out her free hand. Emith didn’t disappoint her. After a little rooting in his pack, he produced a second jar, identical in every way to the first.
“Cuttlefish ink makes a warm sepia-colored dye. Good for glazes or backgrounds.”
Tessa decided not to test the cuttlefish pigment. The shellfish one had sunk into her skin like a tattoo. As she tried to rub off the stain, Emith went on to produce a yellow powder made from crocus stamens; a deep maroon paste called reng that was a mixture of henna and indigo; a red dye called kermes that was prepared from the dried bodies of insects found on evergreen oaks; powdered gold and silver for fancy inks; yellow and orange ocher extracted from iron-rich soil; verdigris, a greeny blue powder that was scraped off weathered copper or bronze; and red, yellow, and white lead powders that Emith warned her not to get on her hands. Last he pulled out a tiny mother-of-pearl box not much bigger than a thimble.
“This,” he said, flicking open the lid with his thumbnail, “is lapis lazuli. The rarest of all of the pigments. This box cost me double its weight in gold.”
Not daring to breathe, Tessa leaned forward to examine the contents of the box. A deep, brilliant blue powder sparkled against the white pearl. So this was what Widow Furbish had got so excited about? A pigment the color of the sea. Looking at the powder, Tessa felt her mind working on something else. As soon as she realized what it was, she sat back in her chair and asked the first question that came into her head.
“So, how do you go about making it into paint?” Her mind had shown her the last picture she had of Widow Furbish—her broken body doubled up in the doorway of her house, her skin shiny with blood—and she didn’t want to dwell on it. Not tonight. Not after Emith had told her that Izgard’s harras had done the same thing to a town full of people. And not just any town: Camron of Thorn’s home. It didn’t take much intuition to guess where he and Ravis would be heading this night.
Tessa rubbed hard at the murex stain on her arm, even though she knew it wasn’t coming out. Would she ever see Ravis again? She honestly didn’t know. Without realizing what she was doing, Tessa felt for the ring hanging from her neck. Whenever she thought of the future or the past, her fingers always found their way to the ring.
Emith began placing a collection of glazed pots on the table. Some of them, like the large one normally stored in the larder that contained clarified egg white for binding, she had seen before, but most of them were new to her. Up until now she had been doing most scribing work in plain black or brown ink
with a quill pen, and this was her first real sight of Emith mixing and binding his pigments.
He used shells as his palettes, oyster or mollusk depending on the quantity of pigment he needed. He began with egg white, added pigment either in powder or liquid form, stirred it with a tiny stiff brush until the mixture was all one color, and then, depending on what his needs were, added various other items to the mix. Sometimes he added a few drops of water if the paint needed thinning, or a glistening bead of fish glue to increase the pigment’s adherence to the page. Chalk was added to increase opacity and lighten or modify the color, and for some pigments Emith used ground-up eggshells instead.
Emith moved like a head surgeon: confident, well practiced, graceful. Tessa felt as though she were seeing him for the first time. No longer was he the short, neat, aging man who jumped when his mother spoke and treated Tessa with such polite deference that in the month they had known each other he hadn’t once called her by her name: he was a skilled craftsman now. His movements were quick, his eye sure, his lips pressed firmly to a tight line.
This was his element. This was where being a scribe’s assistant reached its highest form: the preparation, mixing, and modifying of pigments. Tessa could imagine Emith mixing away in the background as Deveric worked on his latest design, calling out what colors he needed next.
Powdery orange ocher was given a smooth gleam by the addition of a spoonful of honey, kermes red was thickened to a gel by the addition of earwax, and indigo blue was thinned and paled by adding just three drops of stale urine—Tessa didn’t ask who or where it came from. Acacia gum, a dairy glue called casein, pink earth, gallic acid, powdered sulfates of green and turquoise, soot, lampblack, red wine, white wine, woad, ground bones, and gesso all modified the pigments in some way: thickening, creating textures, darkening, lightening, and altering color, shine, and absorbency.