C l scheel, p.8
C L Scheel, page 8
How did these people learn to read and write?
She noticed Master Eika's expectant expression. “I can see you are doing a marvelous job keeping the library in such excellent condition. I commend you and your assistant scribes."
The kindly scribe looked pleased and somewhat relieved as if he had passed some kind of test.
"However, it seems curious that there are no volumes on ... ,” Suzanne shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “History, for instance."
Master Eika turned a shade paler. “History,” he said, almost in a whisper, “is forbidden."
Sensing the scribe's hidden terror, Suzanne lowered her own voice. “It is forbidden? Why?"
"Because it is the directive of the blessed Saint Kyrk. He instructed us that the past is no longer important; that only some things were necessary to remember. Remembering the past only stirs up discontent and disappointment."
Suzanne nodded knowingly, but said nothing. Censoring and suppression. Nothing new, but sadly out of place, particularly in a time when all the knowledge and information from the past was so desperately needed.
She glanced at the rows of books. At least some were saved. “Tell me, Master Eika. Did Saint Kyrk select these books for you?"
Eika brightened. “Oh, yes. Each text was carefully chosen. He made certain we had all we needed. The rest were discarded or burned."
It was difficult not to wince at such a casual dismissal. Burning books—in her mind the most insidious way to destroy knowledge. Like an extinct animal species or the loss of a spoken language, once a book was gone, there was no way to bring it back.
"And, who else reads these books besides you and Prince Akken'ar?"
Caution touched the older scribe's eyes. “Anyone may read these texts ... if they have that ability."
"I see.” Suzanne saw Eika's reluctance and decided not to pursue the matter any further.
They turned by the sound of a sudden commotion at the door. Master Jonovar strode into the library red-faced and out of breath. Young Nathan stood at the scribe's elbow, his thin face white with fear.
"Eika, what is the meaning of this?” Jonovar asked angrily. “Why have you brought her into the Library?"
Chapter Six
SUZANNE BRISTLED AT the Scribe's insult and felt Master Eika's sharp embarrassment. The lines were clearly drawn. Without Prince Akken'ar's presence or disapproval, Master Jonovar was free to reveal the extent of his dislike.
"How dare you allow her to enter this sacred place,” he thundered at Eika. “Only those with authority or special permission may enter the Library!"
"Master Wordkeeper ... ,” Eika started to protest.
"Silence!” Jonovar glared at the older scribe, then at Suzanne. His dark gaze flicked over her attire—at Princess Kiamma's velvet ceremonial robe—his annoyed expression dissolving into contempt. “I must ask you to leave, my lady,” he said stiffly.
Anger overrode her fear of confrontation. Suzanne drew herself up taller, knowing the robe made her appear more courageous than she felt.
"Master Eika invited me into the Library as his guest. I will not desecrate it, if that is your fear, Master Jonovar! And—"
"That is beside the point,” Jonovar retorted. “We are at war with the defiled ones. The Library must be guarded at all times, protected from possible contamination."
Suzanne clenched her hands into tight fists. Her chin went up. Voice raised, she interrupted the Master Scribe “...and, because the prince ordered Master Eika to bring me here, for my own safety!"
Momentarily silenced, Jonovar scowled at her. He jerked the folds of his maroon robe into place, his mouth compressed into a hard line of disapproval. “I, of course, did not know of this."
Master Eika cleared his throat. “Perhaps, if I were to explain?"
"There is no need for explanations, Eika. I understand everything completely.” Jonovar pointed a warning finger at Suzanne. “But know this, I do not believe you are the Wordsayer. I make no apologies. His Highness and I are clearly opposed in our opinions. I shall challenge every effort allowing you access to the Sacred Text."
Jonovar whirled away from her and strode out of the Library, trailing behind him a pleased-looking Nathan and a handful of junior scribes who had been waiting in the hallway.
So much for her good opinion of Nathan, Suzanne thought angrily. Traitorous weasel.
She looked at poor Master Eika, still rattled by their confrontation with Jonovar. It was becoming quite clear that there were two camps of loyal followers: those obedient, or intimidated by Master Jonovar and those who followed Eika's more sensible, compassionate views—and all of them struggling for Prince Akken'ar's approval.
"I apologize for my colleague's unpleasant comments, my lady."
"No need. I have dealt with men like Master Jonovar before.” Bullies, Suzanne silently amended. The Master Wordkeeper was a bully, just like David, who wielded intimidation and disdain like weapons. Her husband had been a master at it: the indignation, the outraged pride. How dare she be smarter than he, make more money than he, and parade herself around like some literary queen.
Tears stung Suzanne's eyes and she looked away so Master Eika would not see. Her extraordinary adventure into the future had now become a nightmare. After the imminent danger was over and after she had read their precious Text, she would insist Prince Akken'ar escort her back to the Pass. She did not belong here, this was not her fight.
Or was it?
Miri's stricken face when she revealed how Princess Kiamma had died and the hopeless look in the eyes of citizens of san'Sorafel when Suzanne had passed through the city still haunted her. And she could not dismiss Akken'ar's tormented, hollow gaze, barely concealing his rage and despair—a man who had struggled too long, trying to win a battle that would never end.
The shadows deepened in the Library. The lamplight cast a soft gloom throughout the room. Master Eika moved about the great chamber, adjusting the lamps and re-shelving a few books left on the tables. Suzanne detected a profound sense of sorrow emanating from the kindly Scribe. This was his domain, his cherished responsibility—his entire life had been devoted to keeping and protecting what was left of mankind's knowledge and wisdom. Master Jonovar's angry tirade had left him demoralized and defeated.
"Master Eika, why do you think Master Jonovar does not believe I am the Wordsayer?"
He turned to face her. “Jealously, my lady. Jonovar has been the guardian of the Text for most of his life. I am certain he feels it belongs to him, yet he cannot read it; he is not permitted to read it. I believe he feels that when he surrenders the Sacred volume to the Wordsayer, that person should be someone like himself, a person of authority and stature."
"And I am a disappointment, an unwanted surprise."
"Yes, since the prophecy repeatedly refers to the Wordsayer as ‘he.'” Eika looked up at her. “You must not misjudge Jonovar by thinking he dislikes you because you are a woman. That is not true. I believe he is upset because now he must surrender the Sacred Text and he does not want to do this."
"What about Prince Akken'ar?"
"The prince cares little about the prophecy or who reads the Text. His duty is to rid san'Sorafel of the vile ones by any means possible."
She eased into a chair placed at the end of one of the mahogany tables. “Do you believe I am the Wordsayer?” she asked softly.
"Oh, yes, my lady. There is no question in my mind. You have the Tearstone; that is the sign of your legitimacy. The blessed Saint Kyrk always kept the Tearstone in his possession until it was stolen from him. Since his time, none of the Messengers ever found it, nor did they return, except for the first Messenger who came back with Saint Kyrk's Text. Sadly, he died at the entrance to Knife Edge Pass."
"How many Messengers have there been?"
Eika shrugged. “Every two hundred and fourteen sunpasses a Messenger is chosen to go through the Pass to find the Wordsayer and the Tearstone."
A light touch of suspicion flared within Suzanne. “If the saint is dead, then who chooses the Messenger every two-hundred and fourteen years ... I mean, sunpasses?"
A long, uncomfortable pause lengthened between them. Master Eika nervously shuffled a small stack of books set on the table before him, not meeting her gaze. Finally, he said, “I believe it was Master Jonovar who selected the last Messenger."
"I see. And the Messenger he sent has not come back?"
"Yes, that is true. They never come back, my lady. They are taken to Knife Edge Pass, but once they leave, they never return. Never. Except for the First Messenger, so long ago."
"What happened to him?"
"It is believed the skags, the Others-of-Us, killed him."
Suzanne absorbed what Master Eika divulged. At last, some answers, but still not enough. If the original Messenger had found the saint's so-called ‘Sacred Text,’ then why wasn't it read at that time?
The sound of a distant horn interrupted her thoughts. Master Eika abandoned his attention on the stray books.
"Ah,” he said. “They have been successful. The skags have been defeated. Come, my lady. We must hurry."
She followed the old scribe out the Library door, back through the crumbling corridor to the main part of the keep. The horn blared again, then several more could be heard from all over the city. A controlled excitement animated the escort guards as they hurried alongside her to meet their returning prince. Suzanne spotted Master Jonovar rushing through the throng along with Master Nathan, who saw her, but avoided her gaze.
The wind and snow had stopped. The only sounds in the still courtyard were the fluttering torches along the walls and upper battlements and the hard clatter of hooves on the wet cobblestones.
From the top steps leading inside Ironhold, Suzanne watched Akken'ar ride through the inner gate with six warriors behind him. Exhaustion riddled his lean features. Blood darkened the sleeves of his long tunic, his gauntlets and the edge of his fur cloak. At the base of the sweeping stairway, he halted and slid from the saddle. A dead archer lay across his horse's withers. Akken'ar bent forward and slid the body from the saddlebow, over his shoulder. With labored steps, he climbed the stairs until he stood face to face with Jonovar. Gently, he lowered the dead warrior until it lay on the top step.
Anger and resolve warred across Akken'ar proud face—his pale skin, translucent in the light of the night torches. He raised a warning finger before the Master Wordkeeper's astonished eyes. “Not one more,” he said menacingly. “Not one more man dies for those things."
Master Jonovar said nothing, but Suzanne felt his mounting annoyance.
Akken'ar pointed to her. “Before this night is over, the Lady Wordsayer will read the Text. Tomorrow we end this, once and for all."
Jonovar bowed. “Assuredly, Highness, but perhaps we should discuss—"
"There is nothing more to discuss, Master Scribe. She reads the Text, or I will!"
Both Jonovar and Master Eika gasped. Even the warriors standing at the base of the stairs and those gathered in the courtyard looked shocked.
"That is blasphemy, my lord!"
Akken'ar did not answer Jonovar, but moved around him and motioned for two men standing nearby to attend to the archer. He turned and approached Suzanne. Cold determination smothered any trace of gentleness in his blue-black eyes. “It is time for you to fulfill your part in the prophecy, my lady. Will you do this?"
It was on her lips to force a promise from him, to insist he return her to the Pass once she had read the Sacred Text. It was her last chance, Alice's only opportunity to escape Wonderland. But she could not. “Yes, Your Highness, I will do this."
Akken'ar inclined his head politely, then held out his hand to her as he had done when she had first encountered him at Knife Edge Pass. Dried blood and grime stained his black gauntlet. Suzanne watched herself in disbelief as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her inside the keep.
Guards, scribes and warriors followed them in orderly files as they made their way into Ironhold, through the ancient Library corridor to the inner courtyard. Akken'ar did not speak, but the pressure on her fingers was stronger. An unusual sensation shot through her, as if she had suddenly become his possession. Suzanne glanced up at him. Resolve had tightened Akken'ar's jaw, he kept his gaze fixed on their destination. She tried to think of something to say, something to ease his exhaustion and the thinly-disguised sense of despair.
"How many days do we have left, my lord?” she questioned in low voice so the other would not hear her.
"Seven, after tonight."
"Surely, the Text will have an answer."
"And if it does not?” he asked sharply.
"Then ... we'll think of something. There must be an answer. There must."
Akken'ar stopped and looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “You think there is an answer?"
"Yes. Yes, there is,” she said with more conviction. “We are smarter than they are and have the means..."
We. As she watched Akken'ar absorb her words, she realized he had interpreted her use of ‘we’ to mean the two of them. Together, they would find an answer to defeat the skags.
He bent to her, his black brows sweeping together forming a disbelieving frown over his eyes. “I pray the gods you are right, for the sake of all of us.” A trace of smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Nonetheless, I value your conviction, my lady."
Before she could respond, Akken'ar raised her hand to his lips and brushed a light kiss across her fingers. Fire danced up her arm burning her astonishment into awareness of his powerful affect on her. Suzanne inhaled a soft gasp. Akken'ar was not only a prince fighting for the survival of his people, but a dutiful man, struggling to conceal the ardor she saw in his intense gaze.
They resumed walking, this time Akken'ar's hold on her hand tightened. They crossed the courtyard and climbed the steps to the great hall, the sanctuary of Ironhold. She gazed upward, astounded, at the soaring vaulted ceiling. Made entirely of gray stone, the sanctuary resembled a cathedral but lacked any indication of religion—no stained glass, no pews, altar or pulpit—its grim grandeur recalling only the form, a shadow of a long-lost memory.
A single balcony flanked each side of the hall and rows of narrow windows cut into the stone walls offered the only source of natural light. Several torches fluttered from their black-iron brackets bolted into the supporting pillars that led to the raised dais at the far end of the hall.
At the top of the dais, Suzanne counted five ornate chairs placed in an open semi-circle, with the center chair, carved from black and green granite, placed between the other four. She gathered her heavy skirts with her free hand and accepted Akken'ar steadying help as they climbed the steep steps to the dais.
Behind them, Master Jonovar and Master Eika, hurried to their places at the left of the throne. General Zykov took the chair placed at the far right; the remaining chair, next to Akken'ar's, was hers. Suzanne sat down cautiously, perched on the edge and clasped her trembling hands in her lap, hoping no one would notice.
Akken'ar did not sit but stood at the edge of the dais, arms folded across his chest, waiting for the great hall to fill with warriors, apprentice scribes, and those who lived within the keep. They looked at him expectantly, eyes filled with curiosity and hope.
"The Wordsayer has been found,” he began. “I have brought her here to read the Sacred Text. Tonight, we will know what the blessed Saint Kyrk has written. His words will help free us from the tyranny of the skags."
A long silence ensued, no one moved, until Master Jonovar rose from his chair. “Good people, I must commend His Highness. He has done a great thing for us, during a time of terrible peril. All of us within Ironhold and the citizens of san'Sorafel long to find a way to destroy the skags. The prophecy tells us that the Wordsayer will help us with this great undertaking, but I fear that time is not yet upon us. As good and kind as our lady guest may be, I do not believe she is the one who the blessed saint has chosen for us."
Unease stirred through hall. Angry muttering rose from a row of warriors standing at the base of the stairs.
"If she's not the Wordsayer, then who is?” one cried out.
His comrade nodded in agreement. “The Eclipse is in seven days. Who'll read the Text if she doesn't?"
"This is blasphemy!” Jonovar pointed to the warrior who had spoken. “It is sacrilege for you, for any of us to listen to the holy words spoken by this woman. She is stranger, an Unaccepted. Are you willing to risk the contamination of your inner life? The blood of your soul?"
The rumblings rose into sharp outbursts. One apprentice scribe cautiously raised his hand. “What proof do we have that she truly is the Wordsayer?"
"She has her proof,” Akken'ar said.
The troubled scribe said nothing, but was clearly unnerved by Jonovar's words.
An archer at the back raised his voice so all could hear, “I say we see her proof!"
A chorus of “yes, let us see it,” and “let her prove who she is,” filled the great hall, sprinkled with a few feeble protests from the lesser scribes, those loyal to Master Jonovar.
Akken'ar motioned her to come forward. Suzanne rose from her chair and approached the edge of the dais. A sea of expectant faces looked up at her, eager to see her proof.—From the folds of Kiamma's beautiful robe, Suzanne produced the Tearstone and held it up high so everyone could see it.
"The blessed Saint Kyrk be praised,” a warrior whispered, awestruck. He swiftly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Several of his companions followed his lead, until General Zykov rose from his chair.
