Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

  Among the eager crowd that welcomed them back were the Magister, Addan—hale and hearty—Anjoya, Braal Runcan and Halvor Thelios. Addan and Geret shared a secret handshake from childhood, then embraced and wept. Anjoya exchanged a passionate greeting kiss with Kemsil, before teasing him about living up to the quality of her former husband: the Magister of Vint. With a smile of utmost confidence, he had assured her that he was up to the task.

  A shadow fell across the bone carving in Sanych’s hands. She looked up and smiled, taking in the familiar features of her guest.

  “Please, join me,” she said to him, scooting over and setting her carving aside. The man stepped to the bench, pivoting to sit with the aid of a highly polished and intricately decorated cane. When at last he was settled, he sighed and rested it against the bench beside his leg.

  “Another scrimshaw of the Shanallar?” he inquired with polite interest.

  “Yes; this is her leaving me behind on the mountain, the morning I found her.” Sanych showed her guest the striding image of Meena, looking over her shoulder with impatience. “How have you been?” she inquired, her voice warm.

  Lord Salvor Thelios took a breath.”I’ve been well, thank you,” he responded, turning his scarred face to Sanych and giving her a lopsided smile.

  “Geret’s not working you too hard?” she pressed, watching the ridges of scar tissue on his cheek glimmer as he pursed his lips.

  “Geret? Hmm…that name seems familiar somehow…” Salvor tapped his chin with a scarred finger, pretending to ponder. “Oh yes, I have it now. He’s the upstart princeling who thinks he’s nearly in charge of the country. Seems he went on a quest or some small thing, and came home with delusions of grandeur.”

  “Ah, but the worst is yet to come,” Sanych added.

  “Do tell.”

  “I hear he found some arrogant fop who thought he could lie his way out of anything, and made the poor fool his Seneschal.”

  “Alas, poor idiot. I hear all he does is pine for the days when he was the best swordsman in Vint. The man has an ego the size of the Southern Sea; they say he had to have the doorways of his ancestral home widened to accommodate it.”

  “I’ve heard that rumor too. Whoever put it out did a fine job.”

  “Thank you. So how is my employer today?”

  Sanych’s gaze unfocused and drifted to Highnave. “He’s frustrated at the moment. Uncle Beret may be retired, but he’s on nearly every council Geret leads, and they tend to butt heads over the best way to proceed. It’s the finance council today.”

  “Ah.” He hesitated. “And, how’s Addan?”

  Sanych sighed. When Geret had returned to Vint, the Magister wanted him to share responsibility for the nation along with Addan. Geret wanted nothing of the sort. In the end, the Magister trumped him…by quitting. By default, the Magistry fell to Geret, according to Beret’s earlier ruling. Though he hadn’t cared for the tactic being used against him, Geret did admire the way his uncle thought. He agreed to be an Interim Magister of Vint only until Addan had recovered enough to take over. Beret accepted that, assigning himself to several of the councils in order to smooth the transition.

  “Addan’s doing well,” Sanych responded. “He’s got some anger issues, which are understandable. He was an unwilling pawn in an evil plot, after all. But other than that, he’s learning very quickly. He and Geret were very competitive in their younger years; that hasn’t changed, and Addan’s determined to prove he’s every bit as capable a leader as his cousin. In time.”

  “How much time, do you think?”

  “Another two years,” Sanych estimated, “and he’ll be booting Geret out the door.”

  “So you’ll be a Master by then,” he said, looking over at the Temple.

  “Yes. They’ve held Master Alii’s position open for me since his death. I’ll be the youngest Master in the history of the Temple.”

  “Does the Temple require a quest for Mastery?”

  “It does. The Master quests are far more narrow in scope, but,” she grinned, “I’m entertaining a few possibilities.”

  “Already?” Salvor asked.

  “Already. And now that the quest to destroy the Dire Tome has been fully transcribed for the Temple’s records, I have the time.”

  “You’ve finished?”

  “Just a few days ago. Oh,” she blurted, “Geret’s done with the meeting; he’ll be here soon.”

  She saw the honesty of Salvor’s smile. On the long voyage home, he’d witnessed her and Geret’s mental intimacy numerous times, but rather than spawn jealousy, it had seemed to help him settle into the sort of person who made an excellent spymaster: one who shared no secrets, nor wanted to. She wondered if he would ever fall in love again.

  “All right,” he said, “I’ll not keep you.” He rose with effort, leaning on his cane, and Sanych watched with a frown of interest. He’d gotten that limp down perfectly. If she hadn’t seen him practicing with Geret, both to regain a swordsman’s flexibility and to limp convincingly, she’d never have been able to tell it wasn’t real. Luring Geret’s potential enemies into a false sense of security, he’d called it.

  Salvor looked back over his shoulder. “You know Vint doesn’t recognize Oathbinding; you should let that young fool marry you properly. Anjoya and Kemsil have been married for over a year now.”

  “Once Geret is only a young fool again, I will,” she returned. “I’ve as little interest in being Magistra of Vint as he does in being Magister.”

  Salvor sniffed in amusement and bowed again, then limped off, remembering to stumble over a rock in the path.

  Sanych shook her head. What an enormous effort, with no guarantee of benefit. But then, that was how Salvor did things.

  A while later, Geret rode up to the stables on his bay stallion, dismounted, and let the boys take care of his horse. He strode over to her, sprawling with a sigh on the bench by her side.

  “Afternoon, Archivist.”

  “Magister. I could have come to you.”

  “It’s distinctly less council-like over here,” he said, scootching toward her until his head was in her lap. She idly drew her fingers through his long brown hair, and he mmmed his contentment. “So, you’ve finished the story of how we destroyed the Dire Tome, and the manuscript is being copied as we speak.”

  “Yes.”

  “I think it’s the best adventure story I’ve ever heard. We knew what we were up against and we tried anyway. Even better, we were successful. The world’s a safer place because of us, and those we lost.” He raised a hand and traced her cheek with a finger. “Nothing you ever do will outshine that. Except possibly marrying me.”

  She smiled. “You know my mind on that.”

  “Alas.” He sighed. “I can’t help knowing. But one of these days, you’ll say yes, O wise Archivist.”

  She smiled, and their bond flooded with warm streams of love. “I like the end of the story best.”

  “Oolat and the dragon?”

  “No. The real end, after we got back from Shanal.”

  “You mean what happened down at the Shanallar Shrine.”

  When she and Geret had set foot in Meena’s humble cave last year, she hadn’t had any idea of the wonders the Shanallar had left behind. Now that the lands of Cyrmant were becoming aware of Meena’s touch on the world, it was no wonder the cave had been made into a shrine.

  Geret was quiet for a long moment. “You’re right. That was the best part, especially for you. Everything else that we found there was for the world. But the scroll with your name on it…I’ll never forget how our bond reacted when you started reading it.”

  Sanych smiled. “And I thought my life was weird during the quest.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Two years ago

  Sanych smiled, watching Geret as he took in the suspended drying rack, the deerskin tapestries and the simple, evocative carvings on the cave walls.

  “This place is amazing,” he said, his voice hushed
in respect for the dead.

  She paused next to the abandoned fire pit, its ash white and flaky around hard black lumps of charcoal. “Knowing who built it, are you actually surprised?”

  “No. But it seems to shout ‘Shanallar’ in here. How could you not know it was her, with all these amazing things around you?” Geret looked up at the aerial meat-dryer that hung motionless over the cold fire pit.

  Sanych glared at him a moment, sending mock irritation along their bond. “I was fifteen, and fresh out of the Temple for the first time in my life. I had it all worked out, and Meena didn’t fit my mental profile.” She smiled, full of memories of the Shanallar. “She didn’t fit anyone’s profile.”

  They took some time to explore Meena’s old home, careful not to damage anything. The cistern in the back corner had overflowed, and wood and fur items on the floor smelled of dankness and decay. Bundles of charcoal sketches and informative pages on local flora, written in homemade inks, survived intact on shelves.

  “So, what do you think she meant?” Geret finally asked, looking around. They hadn’t found what they were looking for, nor was there another exit.

  Sanych recalled the secret words that had brought them here: “Destiny is a complex creature. If you want the full truth of your own destiny, seek it in my cave. Search thoroughly. But once you know the truth, it cannot be un-known. And if you seek it, I hope you can forgive me.”

  “I don’t know what she meant, but considering Meena and her penchant for secrets, it’s going to be something we all could have stood to know a long time ago,” she said, sighing.

  “Maybe,” Geret allowed. “She was right about Addan and me. I would have quested to destroy the Tome if I could’ve, whether I was also going to save Addan or not, and she knew that. I’m glad, now, that she didn’t tell me everything that first night out of Highnave. If she had, I might have gotten so angry that I’d’ve turned the quest around right then and there.” He shuddered, and Sanych slipped her hands into his and squeezed them.

  “And then we would never have been Oathbound,” she said.

  He sighed, looking deeply into her eyes for a long moment. “And that would have been tragic.”

  She nodded. “Terrible!”

  He grinned. “Whatever she hid in this cave must be well concealed, or anyone who broke in here might have spotted it.”

  “Judging by the old and desiccated gifts on her porch outside,” Sanych said, reaching out to help Geret shift the shelves away from the wall, “several people have noticed her absence the last two years. But the door was still locked.” She waggled the makeshift key she’d whittled from memory in order to enter the cave.

  There was nothing of note behind the shelves. Nothing lurked behind the deerskins on the wall, nor were any clues inked on their reverse. There were no secret moveable sections in Meena’s carved landscapes. Nothing lay sunk at the bottom of the cistern.

  Hours later, Geret started a fire, and together they prepared a savory stew and ate it with some waybread from their packs.

  “‘Search thoroughly’, she said.” Sanych squinted, letting the flames before her dance in her unfocused gaze. “She wouldn’t lie about that, not at the very end of everything. It has to be here. Whatever it is.” Slowly, a frown creased her forehead, and she lowered her eyes. Then she smiled.

  Geret followed her gaze. “Now I feel foolish,” he said, giving her a chagrined look.

  He pulled her to her feet, and they set to work. A few torches ensured they’d have light once they dismantled the fire pit. Cistern water doused the flames, and they began scraping the ashes out.

  When they finally moved the pit’s base stones and exposed the secret carving beneath it, Sanych was shocked into silence. Kneeling among the slate slabs, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “It’s…you,” Geret breathed, staring at the image on the cave floor. In the flickering light of the torches, a life-size image of a young woman’s head and shoulders graced the stone, carved with the same sparse lines as the images on the wall. In a raised hand, the carved woman held a burst of what Sanych interpreted to be light magic.

  “How?” she managed. “I don’t understand how.”

  Geret’s fingers explored the smooth contours of the carving’s face. “The proportions aren’t quite right,” he said. “Like she was working from another’s description of you.” His dexterous fingers located a tiny switch in the carving’s hair. “Ah, she stole this idea from the Green Dragon!”

  He gave it a push, and a dull thud sounded below the floor. A circle of stone that contained the entire carving raised high enough that they could wedge their fingers under it and pivot it to the side.

  Below it lay a set of vertical steps, descending into the depths below. Wordlessly, Geret handed Sanych a torch. She dropped it into the darkness, revealing a shaft about ten paces deep. She swung her legs over the edge and descended, picking up the torch at the bottom and holding it high. Her loud gasp echoed.

  “Sanych? What is it? What do you see?” Geret called down.

  Rough bookcases stretched away from Sanych in the low-ceilinged chamber before her. They were crammed with various texts, small chests, scroll cases and framed documents and paintings. The faint scent of old incense reached her nose.

  “There are scrolls…” Sanych began, her voice hushed with awe. “Hundreds of them. Shelves and shelves of books. Maps, sea charts…even portraits, all of Meena. I don’t recognize half of these languages—”

  Sanych dropped her torch with a clatter. She’d found the source of the scent; a small round table nearby held the ashes of many an incense cube. It also held a broad envelope; its dusty surface read Sanych elTiera.

  Sanych picked it up. In the dust-free square beneath it lay a bronze torc. Fantastic dragons marched along the torc’s sides, tails and wings flaring. Smaller sea serpents, birds and squirrel-like rodents traced paths among them.

  Absentmindedly nudging the torch away from the table, Sanych picked up the torc as well. Among the Shanallese dragons, she saw a faint line of text, nearly obscured with wear. Mustering her grasp of the Shanallese language once more, she read the words.

  You, My Soul, Are My Eternity. Yours, Arisson

  Tears rose in her eyes, and she set the torc back down. Her fingers tore at the thick envelope. Meena’s familiar, exotic scrawl met her eyes, and she sank to the floor to read it by the light of the fallen torch.

  Autumn 1062, by the Vinten calendar

  Sanych,

  If you are reading this, then I have succeeded, and the Dire Tome is destroyed. I hope I am dead as well. I’m putting pen to paper now, before you arrive, because what I plan to say is something you will not wish to hear at our “first” meeting, and if my plan fully succeeds, I will not be around to explain it afterward.

  There is so much you must learn, but I dare not pour it all in your ear at the beginning, or you might run screaming. So in order to eventually convince you to help me destroy the Dire Tome, I will pretend to know nothing about your Magister or his proposed quest when you find me. Yet this is far from my first offense against you and yours.

  Your place in my plan to destroy the Dire Tome was no accident. Neither was your birth, nor your magic. I controlled them all. It was the only way to accomplish the task before me. Those such as I do not deserve to live forever.

  Your grandfather Jelm possessed the magic of light, the gift that will wake the dragon who can destroy the Dire Tome. But he would not consider returning to Shanal, his homeland. I aided him in settling in Salience, and saw that his children, and eventually his grandchildren, were tested by one of the Silver Hand for the gift of light magic. Only one possessed it.

  You.

  But you also possessed an enormous natural capacity for memorization and recall. I had another Silver Hand hide your memories from you for your own protection. Now, you are free to return to rediscover the life I stole from you.

  A Dzur i’Oth deserter named Ahni—yes, your
Ahni—told me in Salience of the cult’s plan to curse Prince Addan in order to draw me and my key to them. It was the opportunity I needed. I took you and Ahni to the Temple of Knowledge. Ahni stayed close by to watch over and protect you.

  When the cult arranged for the Magister to receive the “priest’s journal”, directing him to seek the Dire Tome, I sent word to Ahni to suggest the Shanallar as the target of your Archivist quest. She has recently informed me that you’ve agreed.

  I hope that we got on all right, and that I didn’t treat you too poorly. I hope I didn’t force you, at the end, to help me. Because I will if I have to. All I have to offer you, Sanych, is the illusion of choice. Now that you know who I am—and these myriad books and scrolls will certainly fill in any gaps—I hope that you don’t hate me. I have that much humanity left. But if you do, I understand, and hold no blame against you. I’ve done what I must: what no one but I could accomplish.

  I wish you well, Sanych elTiera. You have my everlasting gratitude, and my blessing.

  Welcome to a world where the Dire Tome does not exist.

  Meena

  Sanych held the letter in trembling fingers. She was so stunned that she didn’t sense Geret’s approach until his arms slipped around her waist from behind. They read the letter together a few more times.

  “Meena’s game was bigger than even the cult’s game. Was she even human anymore?” Geret asked, scowling.

  “She was human enough. She held regret, even as she used us.”

  “She was losing that ability to care for others, though,” Geret said. “I understand now why she wanted to die. While she still could see what she was becoming.”

  “Sosta knew about my grandfather,” Sanych blurted in realization.

  “What?”

  “She told us about Jelm, right after our Oathbinding. Remember? She said the last light-magic Scion had left Shanal before she was born. And Jelm was with Meena in Salience. And that means…”

  “You’re a Scion. A descendant of the Shanallar.”

  ~~~