by Dan Allen
It was on the seventh shelf and just out of her reach. Among the bound official records on treated parchments was a faded piece of scratch paper, a subtle difference revealed only in the direct morning sunlight.
Draft documents didn’t belong in the library, which meant somebody had left it by mistake.
Reann felt a surge of excitement. “Interesting.”
She climbed a stepladder and reached for the document, noting a creeping brown hue along the edge.
The misplaced note was at least a decade old.
Reann grabbed the bundle of documents and retreated to the table. Her anxious fingers pulled at the knotting of binding string ineffectually so she bit it with her teeth.
“Open, will you.”
The tie snapped and the leather folder of loose papers burst open. Reann caught the stack of pages as they scattered and quickly recovered the delicate parchment. It was stuck to an official record by a red smear that looked suspiciously like—
“Raspberry jam.”
Reann felt a pang of vicarious guilt, though it couldn’t have been her weakness for raspberry jam and frequent sneaking of bits of forbidden food into the library that had stuck these records. The pages were far too old.
She detached it by tearing the corner from the old record and found that beneath it were another three pages.
The header on the handwritten manuscript read, “For translation only. Destroy upon completion.”
There were two sets of writing occupying every other line. One had short letters, inconsistent spacing, and poorly shaped circles. It was unmistakably Toran’s pen. Between those lines were markings Reann had never seen before. It was a new language—or an old one.
Reann nearly screamed with excitement. “Sacred place beyond,” she whispered. “It’s his diary!”
Apparently, he had ordered his words to be translated into some kind of secret language, perhaps so that if the journal was found it would be impossible to read. Except these pages had words from both languages, interweaved line by line.
She scanned the script.
“This is so simple. I . . . I can read this.”
Reann read both lines together, looking from one word to the much neater script below it, puzzling out the beveled letters made of lines meeting at different angles with decorative curls on the edges.
She read,
In my thirty-third year, the Serbani council of nobles banished Tira to Hersa, knowing that if they killed her, the deadly power she possessed would immediately flare up in another magician in their realm.
It was a terrible mistake. Tira has knowledge of the turning points. Her change magic would have been far less dangerous with anyone else. I did not find out about the matter until it was too late. This unfortunate turn strengthened my resolve to counter the danger she poses to all the realms.
After her banishment, peace reigned for a time in Serban, in my plains, and in the Furendal to the north. But my heart turned to the legends of the ancestors. I had no rest. The mystery of the Lyrium Compass weighed upon my mind heavily.
I delegated right of rule to the council of governors and took a sabbatical journey alone beyond the Montas, to the Outlands. My adventures were many in that desolate place. I witnessed their customs, their slavery, and their crafting of unbreakable iron. On I traveled, eastward, through heat and sand. I came to the edge of my life in that dreadful place.
Then she came to me.
Dariel was the first of the Rizertari that I ever laid eyes on. None other I met ever compared to her. She felt my presence on the sands, like a distant moaning on the wind and came to my rescue. The Rizertari gifts are kin to the Montazi awakening and the Serbani change magic, but more in harmony with the millennial tide.
We traveled at night on skelter, a kind of small desert land dragon that feeds on the venomous insects of the desert that would kill any camel or human to enter the great wasteland. Coming to the edge of the desert, the Rizertas Range, the birthplace of the ancestors, rose gradually out of the sand, coming to a great—
“What’s that?” blurted a voice from behind her.
Reann jumped out of her chair and clutched the papers to her chest. “Ninat, how many times have I told you not to sneak up behind me while I’m reading?”
The servant that had startled her was several years younger than Reann, pencil thin, and almost impossible to notice if you weren’t looking.
“You don’t have to get all worked up about it,” Ninat said. “It’s not like you’re reading that book with all the naughty drawings.”
“That was an anatomy book,” Reann said. “It’s for physicians.”
“And curious girls who want a peep at—”
“Don’t you have anything else to do?” Reann asked.
Ninat just giggled at Reann’s guilt-ridden expression. She pointed to the documents Reann was protecting with both arms crossed in front of her chest and took a step toward them. “Are those for your special project?”
First guess! Is it that obvious? Reann moved casually behind a chair, trying to keep her distance from Ninat’s quick fingers.
Her only consolation was that Ninat’s tone was mostly indifferent. Reann’s project meant little to Ninat, except that when Reann was reading there one less person to tag along with.
Reann decided the best thing to do was simply admit the truth—part of it anyway—and hope Ninat’s curiosity moved on to something else.
“Yes,” Reann said. “It’s part of my research regarding the estate of Toran.”
“The legend of the secret heirs, you mean,” Ninat said. “Everybody else has given up on looking after so many frauds turned up. You’re just obsessed with it.”
“I am not obsessed,” Reann said.
“Then let me see what you’re reading.”
“No,” Reann said. “This record is not meant for . . . you.”
Ninat raised her eyebrows. “Fine. Be that way. I’ll send the head butler. I’m sure he would like to know what you’re up to.”
“Excellent,” Reann said. “I’ve been meaning to tell him about the missing gem in the royal Dervite veil in the display nook on the third floor. You wouldn’t, by chance, know who might have taken it to their keepsake box in the girl servants’ quarters?” Reann’s unflinching expression took on a new level of confidence.
Ninat’s pale skin blossomed in a ferocious red blush. “Me? No, never.”
“The head butler might have ideas to the contrary,” Reann added. “Given your past interest in gems.”
“Reann . . . no,” Ninat said, her voice pleading. She risked a whipping if she were caught stealing again.
“Well, if you see him, be sure to send him my way.”
Ninat crossed her arms and stormed out of the library.
Few of the castle staff took any interest in Reann’s hobby. But nosy Ninat was still a risk to manage.
Reann sat again at the table, this time facing the door. She read eagerly, enthralled with the discovery of another realm beyond the Outlands.
The Rizertari—the ancestors still exist!
But so much of the document made little sense. What were turning points? And what was the Lyrium Compass?
But more interesting than it all was the mention of Dariel’s pregnancy.
My time in the Rizertas was short. My greatest regret is that I did not reach their dragon sanctuary. A turning point in the Montas approached. Crossing the desert by a northerly route in winter, we came to the stretch of bare rock called the Ceiling. Furendali spear throwers guided us back to Erdal. The millennial tide was on the rise. I gathered my cavalry in every village we passed through, promising new conquest for the empire and glory. Eager soldiers flocked to my banner.
I sent Dariel to Ferrin of the Montazi, their new chief, proposing an alliance against the horde. He was the first n
orthern chief in memory and sought stronger ties with Erdal, but my greatest joy was that Dariel was expecting a child.
She gave birth in Neutat, on the day of my victory over the Outlander horde, at the predicted turning point. Great was my grief at her passing. The child was a son, my first, and half brother to my firstborn. With his life, the fate of the Montas will rise or fall.
What follows is the account of our journey through the megaliths of the Montas Realm and the battle with the Outlanders . . .
The script ended abruptly. Reann turned over the last fragile sheet but found no more writing.
In all her life, Reann had never discovered anything like this.
The second heir was born in Neutat on the day of Toran’s victory.
If revealed, this single fact would allow Toran’s heir to claim his throne. It mentioned a firstborn child as well—a girl.
That would have to be someone from Erdal or the northern realm.
Reann knew of Toran’s rumored travel in the Outlands, and had heard of his travel guide, who was supposedly an Outlander. Dariel must have been in Toran’s inner circle. She added the name to the short list of other names she considered likely trust keepers. Godrin, the mathematician—missing after the last battle with the Outlanders; Rembra, the captain at arms—her own grandfather who had perished in battle in the west deserts of Dervan; Ferrin, chief of the Montazi. But who from Dervan, the Furendal, and the Serban?
Had the Serbani insider been Tira? Reann shuddered at the thought of the witch queen.
The significance of this document was not lost on Reann. It exposed the existence of not one, but two children of Toran. She would protect it the only way she knew to be perfectly secure: lock it away in a place only she could reach.
Rereading it, Reann memorized the text, as well as the strange characters of what now seemed to her to be the Rizertari language. Then she took a lit candle and touched it to edge of the pages, and watched the marvelous record turn to smoke and ash.
A sense of peace clashed with the stirrings of deeper emotions within Reann. What Toran’s translator had failed to do, Reann had finished.
Lost in a world of desert dragons, compass-like letter symbols, and Rizertari magic, Reann retied what turned out to be a volume of customs duty exemptions and pushed it back onto the high shelf.
A clattering of hooves rang out in the courtyard. Reann turned quickly, thinking for a moment that it was a pile of books falling. Then she descended the ladder and rushed to the open window overlooking the courtyard.
The stable groom rushed out to meet the new arrival. Wretch was always first on the scene if there was money involved.
Reann squinted to make out the features of the newly arrived man on the horse. He wore a wide-brimmed business hat and the usual black traveling apparel of the finest quality. He dismounted and tossed a coin to Ret, who guided his horse toward the stables.
The horse looked fresh. Reann decided the outsider had probably bought it in the village after arriving by river ferry. His luggage would follow with the delivery coach.
The new arrival paused to gaze up at the citadel. He pulled off his hat and drummed on it anxiously, eyes moving over the exterior of the stone with interest. He was the perfect picture of gentility, rarely seen in these days. By Reann’s reckoning, he was in his early twenties.
And he was devilishly handsome.
Reann leaned back to be sure he didn’t see her spying on him from the window. She listened, heart beating anxiously, as his well-cobbled feet strode purposefully toward the castle.
“So it’s back to your usual games again.” The chief butler stood in the open doorway with his fists nestled in generous love handles.
“I’m cleaning,” Reann said firmly. “You needn’t attend me. Besides you don’t have any work for me anyway.”
“Cleaning, eh? It looks like you’ve been dusting the insides of a few books with your fingers.”
“Cleaning . . . and such.”
“That’s what I thought.” The bald and rotund man could only shake a warning finger at her. The washwoman normally tasked Reann, and the butler had no ideas what chores she was supposed to be doing.
“Shouldn’t you be off to the tavern?” Reann asked. “It must be ten o’clock by now.”
“Not quite ten,” the man returned.
“And leaving so soon?”
He wagged his finger again.
“Oh, and you are most welcome for coming to thank me about the missing candlesticks,” Reann said casually. “You’ll find them in the gallery closet—that’s three merits as I recall.”
“Three more merits . . .” he grumbled as his perturbed expression turned for the door in retreat.
Reann held the record for merits, and not because she worked harder than the other servants did. She simply paid attention.
Except when she daydreamed.
As she walked back across the marble tiles swishing her skirts, she imagined the floor was a ballroom. Footsteps sounded alongside hers, and they waltzed: Toran and Dariel. Reann’s feet turned in time, stepping expertly into spins and lifts.
When the library door let out another woeful screech, it nearly sent her into a panic. She quickly retied the top of her blouse and clasped her hands dutifully behind her back. But then another feeling filled her, a kind of confidence. It was like nothing she had ever felt before. Her heart stilled. She stood straighter, ready, and unafraid. She felt as if she were a cavalier, dressed in armor.
What is this? she wondered. Life suddenly seemed certain, despite all the uncertainty. The feeling swirled in her. It was as if she were once again with her mother or standing atop a hill riding a charging stallion. So many feelings at once crammed into her, Reann wondered that her heart didn’t burst.
A black-booted leg moved into view, and then the full figure of the recently arrived stranger.
He was tall, and he was even more handsome up close, with sharp, keen features—handsome in a cold, untouchable way that made her want to do just the opposite.
“Here we are,” he said, stepping into the room. He held his broadbrim hat between his hands and drummed his fingers along the edges of it eagerly, as if waiting for the first slice of a fine pie.
“Can I help you?” Reann asked, still wondering at the swelling emotion that continued with her. Was it him?
His eyes turned to Reann, noting her with a look of surprise, as if the furniture had talked. “Help me? Not likely.”
Reann felt her ears warm as she smoothed the front of her apron unnecessarily. “I read six languages,” she offered. Perhaps seven, she thought, recalling the strange language on Toran’s diary.
“Can you read this?” He gestured with his thumb to the door.
Reann considered for a moment the idea of going to the door and shutting it rather than leaving. It put a flicker of a smirk on her face that she quickly banished.
Besides, it was a rhetorical question, she decided, and so she didn’t move. Peasants were not to answer rhetorical questions—it was in the rules somewhere.
When Reann did not take the hint to leave, he asked, “Are you the keeper of the records here? A bit young for a salaried official, I think.”
Reann let out a shy smile. “No, sir. I’m no person of employ. I was born in this castle. My mother attended the court, but she is gone. I serve in her stead, having no inheritance.”
The young man’s stoic expression changed. He lifted his head and made a thin-lipped conciliatory smile that faded. “I . . . I am sorry for it. It seems we share a commonality.” He spoke with open cordiality now, as if her story had somehow changed his impression of her value.
“Nay, lord. I am a peasant.”
“I mean we have both lost our parents.” He sat upon a wooden chair at the long reading table. He removed a boot and shook out a small rock, put the boot back o
n, and ran a finger under his collar, loosening it on the side of his neck where his skin was a shade whiter, like a scar from a burn.
Not wanting to seem too anxious to know his business, Reann tried for a distraction. “You must have traveled far,” she volunteered. “Are you sure you won’t first take a rest? I shall be available at your later convenience if you wish.”
“I’ve missed the conference, haven’t I?” the man said resignedly, blowing a wisp of brown hair out of his eyes.
“I’m sorry. It only just ended the night before last.”
The man shrugged and spun his hat on the table absently, gazing around the room.
“Are you a governor, sir?” asked Reann. He seemed quite young for that kind of position.
“I—well, sort of.”
Reann carefully maneuvered into sitting range of a stool and slid onto it quietly, not wanting to appear rude by sitting in the presence of the lord, but daring herself to try.
“Less than two fortnights ago my father was the governor,” the man started. “He has since passed on.”
“Oh,” Reann whispered.
“When I had buried his body and mourned seven days with my kin, I came in his stead to attend the conference of governors. But,” he gestured to the empty room, “I’m rather late.”
She didn’t believe a word of it. “Which province does your family rule?”
“I call Treban home,” he confessed after a moment’s pause. He made wide, unconvincing gestures as he described the place. “The harbor was overrun by pirates not long ago. They burn here, plunder there, and sail for the next town. We have no peace, nor the strength to fight them by ourselves. Old allies betray us. Not even my father could reign in the rebel villages. Sympathizers and cowards outnumber the cockroaches.”
“The other governors all speak of similar problems,” Reann commented. “Not that I eavesdrop, it’s just . . . ”
“Of course.”
Reann drifted closer to the young lord, taking a seat on a footstool beside the table. “May I ask what it is you need from the library?”