by Jeff Wheeler
A glint of light off armor caught his attention and he slid to a stop, jumping away toward a small table to hide. Novan ducked beneath the table just as the guard entered through the small doorway—far too small for a fully armored soldier—his oiled mail clomping across the stones. Gripping the stack of books he had pilfered from the library, Novan crept forward along the row of musty and ancient texts, mostly stolen copies of guild works that he ignored, careful to keep low, hiding the top of his head from view.
If he could just reach the window . . .
Something caught the guard’s attention and he stomped toward it, running past the stacks of shelves with a rattle of metal. Dim lantern light flickered off his dull armor, but it was the unsheathed sword clutched in his hand that caught Novan’s attention.
Novan froze, fingers gripping the thick leather spines, afraid to lose them after all the time he’d spent searching. These works did not belong in a place like this, no matter what reputation the great library of Gomald had. Had he another moment, he would slip them into the pack on his back, but he didn’t dare risk making any sound or alerting the guard to his presence.
Soon the librarian would be found. Then the alarm would truly be raised.
It was his fault the guard had come in the first place. Novan had not managed to catch the librarian completely unaware, as much as he had tried, though he did not think it entirely his fault. At that time of night, this section should have been empty. What was Nils doing up anyway?
Novan shifted, drawing his cloak around him, trying to melt into the shadows. The guard made a few sounds near the back of the library. Where Nils was tied up.
He had to move. Waiting any longer risked capture, and the guild was not viewed favorably in this land.
Having no other choice, he unclasped his pack. The soft jingle of the buckle seemed to echo in the library. He slipped the books atop others.
Just as he heard the heavy clatter of mailed feet, he started toward the window. At least he had planned for his escape, had taken the time needed to open the glass. If only the rope held.
The guard drew nearer. Another dozen steps, Novan suspected, counting them off in his head. He reached the window and jumped over the edge, spinning and grabbing the rope to descend the three stories in darkness. Now if he could only climb down in time.
He worked his hands quickly down the rope. With Novan nearly to the bottom, the guard looked out the window. There came a shout from above him, though useless at that time of night as the rest of the castle slept.
The rope shook. Novan paused, looking up. The guard hacked at the rope with his sword.
Ten feet to the bottom. Too far to risk jumping, not if he wanted to walk out of the castle.
He slid. The rope burned through his hands, tearing flesh from his palms as he went down the last few feet. Just as his feet touched the soft dirt, the rest of the thick braided rope came coiling down around him.
Novan glanced up to see the guard straining against the darkness as he looked for him. The lanterns in the library flickered behind him. Novan swept his cloak around him, hoping the dense fabric shrouded him from sight, and worked his way along the wall.
* * *
Novan crouched along the side of the castle. A filthy stream of water ran alongside him, the fetid odor of the muck making him nauseated as he slid along the wall, his back pressed against the damp stone. Being so close to the water, the stone was even wetter than the other walls, but he didn’t dare move away. At least there, his cloak kept him covered, protected by the ever-darkening night.
Somehow he needed to escape the city.
His pack felt heavy and full, pulling against his back. Novan did not dare open the pack, as much as he might want to, to look at the texts he had snared from the library. The others—the reason he had come to Gomald in the first place—sat at the front of the pack, but that was not the text that had his mind racing. Rather, he wondered about the book that Nils had spent the night copying. What would keep the ancient librarian awake long enough that he would copy into the night? And why would it be in Gomald?
Novan would need time to translate the words written in the book, but the runes would take longer.
Once free from the city, he would have all the time he needed. Especially once he reached Thealon. At least there they respected the guild, whether or not Novan truly represented the guild as he once had.
The stream of putrid water blocked him. More than that, the pair of guards standing alongside the city gates made him move carefully.
At least he had managed to escape the castle. Now that he was out, he needed to disappear, fade into the darkness, if only the guards would stop their patrols long enough that he could sneak away.
That they still searched told him more than enough about the value of what he had managed to secure.
Lanterns faded into the night. Novan waited until he heard nothing, not content that the fading lantern light kept him protected. Not after what he had seen in Gomald, not after the priests he had seen there. No—he waited until he heard nothing. Only then did he step through the thick muck of the stream, his pack held high overhead as he trudged through, holding his breath the entire time.
Once across, he darted into the darkness, running from the castle. He didn’t know how long he’d run before he turned around, finally daring to look back. The castle blazed with hundreds of candles, but it was one on the topmost floor of the central tower that drew his eye, one that he knew to belong to the High Priest, a man he had intentionally avoided during his stay in Gomald.
Novan shivered. The idea that the High Priest knew he existed frightened him. But at the same time, he felt a small thrill. Defying the Deshmahne meant something, he knew. Especially if everything he’d learned about the religion was true. Even more if the High Priests were the ones that had wanted the text he now carried.
A gust of wind came in from the south. With it came the scent of the sea mixed with the stink of something unfamiliar. Novan shivered, fearing what that might mean, as he ran into the darkness.
* * *
“I just need passage.”
Novan looked at the weathered riverman standing in front of him on the dock. The wide slats of the dock creaked under his feet and he did not look forward to the prospect of standing on the skiff as it crossed the river, especially with the gusting wind making the water swirl with whitecaps. At least his waxed bag should provide some protection from the water should the spray come up over the edge during the transport, but not enough if the boat capsized. There was nothing that would protect him then.
“Passage be ten coppers,” the man said. He was missing half his teeth and those that remained looked blackened.
Novan sighed. Hurrying from Gomald had made him careless with his coin. A few coppers here for a night in an inn. Another few coppers spent on food. By the time he reached Rondal River, he had little remaining. Once back in Thealon, he knew ways a historian could earn money, but none that he could manage to do quickly.
First he had to cross the river.
The riverman had one hand on the rope barrier blocking access to his wide skiff. Thin wooden rails ran along the outer edge. In his other hand he held the long wooden oar, the flat blade streaked with mud from the river bottom. A few people stood on the deck of the skiff, most staring across the river. A younger woman watched him with curious eyes, her auburn hair pulled behind her head.
This would be the last transport across the Rondal River before sunrise. After everything that he’d been through, he wanted to put as much space between him and Gomald as possible.
“I don’t have ten coppers,” Novan began, “but I can get you something even more valuable.” He pulled one of the texts out of his pack and prepared to open it.
The man waved him off. “Coppers, not paper,” he said. “You got to be able to read to make paper worthwhile.”
Novan shook his head. How could someone be unable to read, especially in a place of such high trade? He l
eft the question unanswered and tilted the book toward the riverman. “This is the work of Alaiht. Original text,” he whispered, careful about how loudly he mentioned his mentor’s name. Novan hated bargaining with it, but knew that a copy existed, so if the original disappeared, the writings of Alaiht wouldn’t be lost forever. “You take this to Thealon and you would be able to get ten silvers. Ten times what you’re asking.”
The riverman grunted. “Then you take it to Thealon. I want coppers.”
An elderly couple pushed up behind him and Novan had to let them past. There was no use arguing with the man any longer, but he needed to convince him to let him pass. Somehow. Only he had nothing that he could trade.
“Is there anything that I can do for you?” he finally asked after the couple had passed.
The riverman began replacing the rope barrier. Soon the skiff would head across the river and Novan would be trapped for the night, left behind on the shore of Gomald. Much better, he knew, to spend the night across the border in the nation of Thealon, whether he spent it in town or sleeping on the side of the road. Even better would have been reaching the city of Thealon itself, but the capital was a long way off.
“Nothing other than coppers,” the man said.
Novan sighed and slipped the book back into his pack. “I already said I don’t have the coppers.”
“Then you don’t have transport. Head back to Gomald. The library there will buy your books. Then you can get transport from me.”
The next place to pass was far upriver. At least another week by foot, probably more. Had he managed to borrow a horse, he could reach it in a day. But had he a horse, he would have been able to trade it for transport.
And he did not want any more delay. Remaining in Gomald left him nervous, fearful that Nils, and whoever requested the texts that Nils collected, would find him. Novan had the protection of the guild, but there were limits to that protection, and he had the distinct sense that Nils knew things about the guild that he should not. That made Novan even more cautious.
Beyond that was the book he’d found. He had not yet deciphered whatever Nils had been copying—the runes in the book meant little to him—but the wording made it clear that the runes had significance. If only he could learn what.
For that, he needed to reach Thealon. He knew people in the great university there, would have access to the library so he could research the runes. Other than the guild, he didn’t know where else he might find what he needed, and he didn’t feel comfortable returning to the guild without learning more.
Once, such hesitation would have seemed impossible for him to believe. Novan had always believed that the guild worked to further knowledge, but what he had seen over the last few months left him with new questions. Especially after Gomald.
“May I see that?”
Novan looked up to see the woman with the auburn hair looking at him over the shoulder of the riverman. The man turned and scowled at her but she ignored him. Eyes flashed with the color of the water as she smiled at Novan. She held her hand out and around the riverman. Novan noticed how delicate her fingers appeared.
He frowned at her. “You wish to see this?” He held Alaiht’s text carefully in front of him.
Could she be from Gomald? Nils wouldn’t send a woman her age after him, would he?
But the long pleated skirt of forest green and deep blue hung just past her knee, not to her ankle as was proper in Gomald. The embroidered cloak hanging over her shoulders looked more like a Rondalin weave. Strangest to Novan was the simple chain around her neck that looked to be Lakeliis made. A thick band of dull metal, which he did not recognize, hung around the chain. From her dress, she could be from anywhere but Gomald.
Her smile deepened and something about her face changed. “You were offering it for trade.”
The riverman scowled and turned to step over the rope barrier. “Skiff is departing,” he said gruffly.
The woman looked at him. “Then I will pay his transport.” She reached one of her delicate hands into a pouch hidden beneath her cloak and pulled out a silver.
The riverman seemed to glare at her, but took the coin, pushing it into his pocket. Without a word, he opened the rope to let Novan pass.
Novan debated the offer for a moment, wondering if this weren’t some kind of trick, before deciding to take the risk. If all she wanted was the book by Alaiht, he had been prepared to trade that to the riverman. If there were some deeper trick, then he would be caught anyway.
As the skiff pushed away from the dock, Novan stood next to the woman, making sure to stand as close to the middle of the skiff as possible. The gusts of wind sent occasional spits of spray up that splashed him in the face. Swells of water lifted the skiff uncomfortably.
“You are not accustomed to traveling by water?” the woman asked.
Novan shook his head. “Prefer a horse or my feet.”
She looked completely at ease, shifting with each changing gust to ride out the change in the waves. “Not much different than riding a horse. You just have to learn the movements.”
He laughed at that. “With a horse you can’t end up drowning if you’re thrown.”
“Depends on where you ride,” the woman said.
She gave him space near the middle of the skiff. Her arms crossed over her chest and she looked across the river, seemingly unconcerned about the swells that grew larger the farther they traveled into the river. Near the front of the skiff, the riverman worked his oar, steadily driving them forward, dipping down and then back up. Mud still clung to the blade as he lifted it from the water, telling Novan that the river was not too deep there.
“You seem nervous,” the woman commented.
“Eager to reach Thealon.” He could stay in Thealon for weeks if needed. There were places that the guild owned where he could stay, but he knew other places as well, places where the guild would not watch. Novan had not decided which he would choose. “Not eager to swim.”
A surge of water splashed over the deck. In the middle of the skiff, water crashed over Novan’s boots, splashing up and getting his pants soaked below the knee. The woman simply shifted, lifting her skirt to keep it dry, unmindful of the way she flashed her legs as she did. Novan could not help but stare.
“The river can be violent here. Some say that’s why Gomald is so different from Thealon. That the gods wanted differences, so created the Rondal River to separate the lands.”
Novan chuckled. “You think the gods care how men are ruled?”
Her smile faded. “You think that they do not?”
Novan chided himself for risking such debate. He should be thankful to the woman for paying his way across the river, not arguing the semantics of the Urmahne faith, but there he was, unable to help himself. “There are some who claim the gods do not exist.”
“Those men are fools,” the woman said with a decisiveness that surprised Novan. “Can they not look around the world and see the beauty the gods have created? Have they not seen the abilities wielded by the Magi and glimpsed a fraction of the gods’ power? Even your Thealon, where the Tower of the Gods rises to the heavens, is evidence of their existence.”
She watched Novan for a moment before turning and looking back out over the water. Her blue-green eyes skimmed across the surface of the water, flickering across every cresting wave and finally settling on the far shore where wide fields of massive grasses waved in the wind, swaying back and forth.
“I am sorry if I offend,” Novan said, softening his tone. “Sometimes I forget myself and speak too freely. And after you have paid my fare, I should exercise more caution.”
She laughed softly and turned to him, her eyes seeming reluctant to look away from the far shore of Thealon. “You think me offended?” She shook her head. “Not offended, though happy to debate the merits of your comment. Most who make comments about the gods are either ignorant or frightened. Since you carry the work of Alaiht with you, I assume that you are not ignorant. I would be interested
in why you are frightened.”
Novan started to answer but caught himself, slowly registering that she had identified Alaiht’s text by sight as she’d been too far away to overhear. “I’m sorry. I did not catch your name.”
Something flashed across her eyes briefly before fading. “I did not offer it.”
Novan waited, thinking that she might say something more. When she didn’t, he said, “I am Novan.”
Her lips tightened. Another swell caught the skiff, sending more water splashing across the deck. The woman lifted her skirt, keeping it dry, unconcerned about the water that soaked her boots. “Just Novan?”
He shrugged.
“So a historian, then,” she said, nodding. “I suppose that explains why you would care about the book. But not your fear.”
That she recognized him as a historian based on name alone told him much about her. Suddenly her dress took on a different meaning. He had thought the clothing cobbled together, a cloak here, skirt there, the necklace from another place, all the result of wandering merchants. But perhaps that was altogether incorrect. If she recognized him as a historian, she probably had visited each of those places, regardless of how spread out they were. If so, she might be as well traveled as him.
Trying a different tactic, he asked, “You know of Alaiht?”
She smiled. “He has an interesting take, especially on the founding of Thealon, though I imagine you share his philosophy?”
“I would not call a historian’s observations ‘philosophy,’” he said, “but I share his conclusions.”
“And about Vasha?”
Novan hesitated. The text by Alaiht he’d offered the riverman told much of the history of Vasha, the city of the Magi few understood well. As far as Novan was concerned, Alaiht’s text was the definitive discussion on Vasha, one none of the Magi were willing to discuss. Or, more tellingly, refute. But it was not well distributed. Copies existed, though most were in the universities, like in Thealon or Vasha. A copy of his original text could be found in Masetohl, but only one of the guild would know about that.