Journal entry 205
2nd of Iron Fang, 1798 S.C.
Herres
Given how varied and long this journey has been, I had come to presume that no event, no outcome, could be so unique or unexpected that novelty alone would justify inclusion in this journal. But just when one believes a thing to be impossible, that is when fate reminds them of the hubris of such presumptions. Thus it was with my ruse of leading the settlers away from the dragon, because every part of the plan’s execution defied what I have come to expect.
Which is to say, the plan worked without flaw.
The weather was excellent: clear and temperate, but not so warm that it wearied our mounts. With never more than a single moon in the cloudless sky, we had just enough light to ride from landmark to landmark, but not so much that we were at risk of being seen. Neither of our groups encountered any troublesome species, and an hour or so after the sun cleared the horizon, the dragon appeared flying high over the mountains, the occasional flap of its wings like a black flag waving in the middle of the light blue sky.
The settlers, whose numbers had grown overnight, had just arrived at the edge of the killing field and were debating whether they should go through or around it when Ahearn and I came galloping in from the west.
Ahearn told the tale of our having learned that this was the creature that slew his grandfather. He followed that poignant revelation with warm inquiries about their communities, striking a perfect balance between ignorance of their region with enthusiasm for learning more about it and them.
Those winning ways—what Ahearn called his “common touch”—quickly secured their trust (and, from the younger women who comprised just under half of the contingent, more than a few furtive, encouraging glances). I suppose he was just foreign enough to be intriguing rather than off-putting. He spoke a wild mix of Commerce, Vallishan pidgin, and Midlander. Taken together, his exchanges with the settlers were just broken enough to convincingly resemble the conversational efforts of a foreigner, create a plausible impediment to detailed questions, and yet clearly communicate our shared purpose: to kill the dragon.
All the while, the settlers kept wary eyes on the distant, soaring wyrm. Although they never said so openly, it was pitiably clear that they were very glad indeed that we had showed up—which, for Kar Krathauans, was the equivalent of weeping in relief.
When the dragon finally broke off from its swooping and gliding, Ahearn stood resolute and impassive as the settlers’ fear increased in direct proportion to the growth of the creature’s silhouette. However, after spending several eager minutes watching it approach, he cried in frustration when it veered off and headed for a hill far to the east. He pointed his sword in that direction and called upon any settlers who were so inclined to follow him to its apparent lair.
It was agreed that we would go ahead with two of their riders to attempt to locate the presumed cave, assess the approaches and the beast’s alertness, and perhaps determine a plan of attack for the morrow. At no point did the settlers stop to wonder if their hide and worsted clothes and motley assortment of hunting spears, shortswords, and wood axes were sufficient for dragon hunting. While one could not help but admire their bravery, it also invited one to doubt their faculties.
By the time we reached the hill five hours later, stealthily climbed up its slopes, and crept into the wide cave, it was obvious that the dragon had been there but left. The riders cheered; the dragon had been chased off! But Ahearn’s response was a grim shake of his head. “He’ll be back,” he intoned like Fate itself. “And I mean to stay and see this through.” Alone? the settlers wondered. If need be, he replied.
A rider went back to communicate this to the approaching mob which spent the rest of the day walking to reach the foot of the hill. A few returned to the cave with the rider who’d borne the message to them all. But eventually, as the sun started sinking, the throng began to disintegrate, groups of two and three breaking off to make their way back west. Between the vindication of believing themselves to have scared off the great wyrm, and the lurking dread that it might return, the rest of the settlers departed after waving solemnly to Ahearn, the hero of the hour.
As the sky began to darken in the east, the riders who’d remained became restless. The four young settlers who’d joined us—all young men and women with impressive physiques but dull affect—seemed less worried. However, they were very attentive to the opinions and intents of the two riders, who were both leaders of respected steadings.
Ahearn congratulated them all on their resolve and courage, encouraged them to take a few handfuls of coins—and then stopped in mid-exhortation, listening intently. When asked, he said in hushed tones that he thought he’d heard the swoop and flapping of immense wings. He listened some more, announced that he’d probably been mistaken, and returned to chewing on the dried meat the settlers had pressed upon us.
The settlers never fully recovered from that quick pulse of panic and its abrupt reminder of their actual situation: if they did not leave soon, they would be spending the night in the lair of a dragon that was still at large. After overtly studying the looks on their faces, Ahearn stood and nodded approvingly at them. It was important to live so that they could fight again another day, he said somberly. He and his armsman (me) were trained and equipped for the business of hunting a dragon. But they all had families to look after, or start, and valor could demand no more than they had already shown themselves willing to do this day.
It was a bravura performance. Ahearn’s mix of common sense and praise was all the excuse they needed to leave, casting regretful looks back at the two lone figures waving farewell from the high ledge of the lair. Within the hour, we had brought our horses into the cave, provisioned them, and eaten what I believed to be the day’s-end meal.
But Ahearn’s brisk completion of all those tasks had not been motivated by a desire to be ready to move before first light. Rather than preparing his sleeping roll, he began double-layering it into a large bag. His purpose became evident when he began scooping coins into it.
I expressed concern over whether the dragon had intended to include this cave when he had told Ahearn that he was welcome to anything outside his lair. Without a break in his labors, he assured me that the dragon had included an image which made his approval quite clear.
I could not tell if the lack of detail in that explanation was an attempt to evade the matter, or a byproduct of his monomaniacal focus on finding every coin. Either way, there was no proving what the dragon had or had not shown him. Besides, for the wyrm’s own good, as well as ours, we would soon be far away, and it was very unlikely to return to its now-disclosed emergency refuge.
We were up well before dawn, leaving behind a cave without a single coin in it, as well as at least two dragon eggs that we never discovered. We made directly for the untamed sward to the east and were joined by the other three of our fellowship shortly after noon.
From there, we rode southeast for six days. Halfway through that journey, the country became less flat and was spotted with lakes, some quite large. The Kar Krathaun regional maps were extremely accurate and kept us admirably oriented and on course. On the seventh day, the hills which marked the southern limit of our ride appeared precisely where we expected.
Another day brought us around the southern end of those highlands and so, to the falls that marked the headwaters of the Quickrun River. We resolved ourself to several days of travel in Vallishar.
It took three days to reach the northernmost frontier of Tavnolithar, where we were able to negotiate a reasonable fee for passage downriver on a livestock barge. It proved both a noisy and noisome trip, but the speed of our progress and the relief after almost a full moonphase in the saddle kept us in good cheer.
The one awkward moment came on the first morning, when I approached S’ythreni about the reason we had settled upon Tavnolithar in the first place: that, according to her, a person or persons in its port capital of Herres offered the best chance of finding a way into Mirroskye. I asked if we would be taking ship from Herres to Eslêntecrë, the Iavarain preserve’s only open port, and only city on the sea.
S’ythreni did not look up. “I hope so. But more importantly, you are going to Herres to meet someone.”
“Who?” I wondered. “Do we need to send a request ahead?” I presumed it was a person of some importance.
“No. That will not be necessary. And ‘we’ are not going to meet him. Just you.”
I may have frowned. “Is this person a friend of yours?”
S’ythreni’s reaction was not one I had ever thought to see in her: embarrassment, possibly shame. “No,” she replied eventually, “he is not my friend. But he is a person whom you may trust. And who is likely to help you.”
“He lives in Herres?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know we will find him there?”
She looked away. “Because I know.”
I did not press her to say more, and I do not think she would have. However, from the earliest tales right up to accounts written during the First Consentium, there is an ill-defined—or at least undisclosed—affinity between trees and the Iavarain that dwell among them. Of particular interest are reports of messages being relayed with great speed between those who dwell in sizable forests. However, those accounts seemed to imply that this had only been observed between the wooded domains of the highest and oldest of the Iavarain. Specifically, the ones whose bloodlines were not merely ancient, but reached back to the Til’Uulamantre who ruled before the sundering of their race. Or so it is said.
Shortly after breakfast on the fifth day aboard the barge, the walls and taller towers of Herres peeked above the onrushing flow of the Quickrun. It is typical of many cities that had to be rebuilt after the retraction of the First Consentium: polyglot architecture with a wide variance among the materials and quality of the buildings. Its walls were quite well maintained, though: a probable consequence of being located only five leagues from the southern tip of its old rival Vallishar.
As soon as we had arranged for lodgings, S’ythreni disappeared to make contact with the mysterious individual she had mentioned. In the meantime, we resolved to sell what gear we had retained from the ambush.
We hadn’t even finished revising our inventory when S’ythreni returned and informed me that the meeting was arranged. When? I asked. Right now, she answered and led me to an old but well-kept house several streets back from the wharves. It stood slightly apart from the other homes and shops that crowded around it, with a margin on all sides. The unleaded glass windows on the ground floor all boasted inset images of colored glass: a wave, a tree, a sun, a cloud, a distant bird, a porpoise, a horse. All were stylized to give the impression of the object in motion, rather than in detail.
I turned to ask S’ythreni if I was to approach on my own, but she was already gone. A voice calling my name drew my attention back to the now-open door and a young person standing beside it. He or she bade me enter with a gesture. I nodded my thanks as I did.
I discovered a male Iavan sitting at a small table near a window I had not noted from outside—probably because from without, it looked like a wooden panel. He smiled as it caught my attention. “You might be surprised how often that has proven useful.”
“I can only imagine,” I rejoined with a slight bow. “I am Druadaen, but you have already learned that through our mutual acquaintance, Alva S’ythreni.” One of his eyebrows raised at my use of the formal honorific. “I, however, am unable to greet you by name, since she did not share it.”
He nodded, gestured toward the only other seat at the table. “Please sit.” When I had, he nodded more deeply: what some call a “seated bow.” “I am called Tharêdæath.”
I think—well, I hope—I kept my lips from reforming the name silently. One of the things that all branches of the Uulamanthi still share is a refusal to reuse names, which, if it was still true, meant that I was sitting in the presence of an Uulamantre whose deeds had figured significantly early in the First Consentium. I performed an even deeper version of a seated bow. “I am honored.”
He chuckled. “You appeared to be surprised, more than anything else.”
“I did not immediately recognize your name.” Which was partially true. “I have only heard it—well, read it—in the context of your female rebirthing during the First Consentium: Tharêdæa.”
He smiled. “As reported, you are indeed a scholar. And a Courier. And an Outrider.” There was mischief in his eye. “Have I left anything out?”
“Possibly a remittance man, too,” I admitted.
He laughed. “And a self-deprecating sense of humor as well.” He produced a carafe of wine from a black sideboard. I hardly noticed the almost greenish tint of the vintage; the black wood held my eye. It was made of ironpith, the same material as S’ythreni’s crossbow. All our recently gained wealth could not have paid for half of it.
“Wine?”
“Thank you, but I must decline,” I answered, remembering at the last second that in a first meeting with Iavans, one avoided the word “no” when refusing any offer or other courtesy.
He smiled approvingly as he poured a small measure into his tall, thin glass. “You have made a study of my people. Or are our ways still so thoroughly taught in Dunarra?”
I shrugged. “I had the benefit of being educated in Tlulanxu, where there is no shortage of docents who are well versed in both our earliest history and that of our ancient allies.”
“And who inspire young men to ask troublesome questions. Or so it seems.”
Druadaen smiled. “I have them to thank for an excellent education. I have only myself to blame for the purposes to which I have put it.”
He nodded, rolled the wineglass between his palms. “Tell me about those purposes.”
Tharêdæath had an even keener interest in my researches than the dragon. At least half a dozen times he stopped me so I might explain some point in greater detail or expand upon the deductions and inductions which had led from one discovery to the next. By the time I had finished, the colored outlines painted on the floor by the window-images had moved from the far western end of his sitting room and were edging into the eastern half.
He took a sip of his wine, then laid that hand flat upon the table. “There is a swift Uershaeli ship waiting at the King’s Wharf. My retinue and I will be taking passage eastward. Given your researches and peculiarly propitious arrival, I think you might be well served to join us.” He must have seen the hopeful look in my eye. “It is not going to Mirroskye. However, I suspect that will ultimately be to your advantage.”
“I trust your judgment in this, naturally. But I do not perceive the benefits you do.”
He smiled. “It would be most disconcerting if you could. You have arrived at an auspicious time. Within the week, a Corrovani ship will find mooring in Herres’ harbor, discharge two passengers on a skiff, and then depart. One of those passengers is an Uulamantre of my generation, lately a guest and advisor in the Citadel of the Urn Wardens at Araxor.”
I remember becoming a bit light-headed: two Uulamantre whose lives reached back to the First Consentium, if not farther. “And the other passenger?” I remember murmuring.
“One of the Citadel’s Greyblades.”
When the imminent arrival of storied persons and famous orders of warriors start getting woven into one’s casual chat with an ancient Uulamantre in his sitting room, there comes a moment when it is hard to believe that any of it is real. Or at least, real within the scope of one’s own mundane existence. I abruptly felt outside myself, as though I was looking in upon the affairs of the great and the powerful or a scene from some tale of legend.
But then I was back behind my own eyes and nodding. “I was not aware that the Greyblades had endured as an order.”
Tharêdæath shrugged. “Their heart and their name is the nation’s, and vice versa. If one ceases to exist, it is likely the other will follow shortly. But all this is by way of underscoring why we may not go to Mirroskye, at least not at this time. Rather, we are responding to a summons from the Great Pool: to render aid determining the fate of a ship that was bound for Eslêntecrë. We know nothing else, but may be certain of this: if the matter was not grave, we would not be asked to sail to the other side of the continent.”
“The other side of Ar Navir? Is that where the ship was lost?”
Tharêdæath’s green eyes did not blink. “Eight miles out from the city you call Tlulanxu.”
I remember that as the moment when I could no longer be surprised by whatever I might learn next. I remember him explaining that it was in fact an Iavan ship, which should have been invulnerable to mundane foes. Consequently, mancery or miracles were strongly suspected.
It also meant that someone or something of importance had been on that ship. Not because it was in Tlu’Lanthu, he explained (using the Uulamantre name for the city), but because the vessel was a-sea at all. Mirroskye sent fewer and fewer ships out upon the oceans because doing so invited contact, and contact was increasingly troublesome for the Iavarain: a tantalizing comment upon which he did not expand.
“So,” I conjectured when he finished, “by proposing to bring me back to Tlulanxu, are you suggesting that my further endeavors would be best served by returning to the resources of the Archive’s Reserved Collection?”
He shook his head. “No. I agree with your ancient friend in the mountains.” That was a euphemism we had adopted for the dragon. “However, there is someone in Tlu’Lanthu who might make a brief—perhaps incognito—visit worthwhile. The Hidden Archivist.”
I frowned. “The who?”
“The Hidden Archivist. Is that not your name for our curator who tends the ancient vaults?” Seeing the confusion in my face, he stopped. “I apologize, Druadaen. I have made a grave error and jeopardized you in doing so.
“When you suggested you might return to the Reserved Collection, I presumed you were privy to all of its secrets. And the presence of the Hidden Archivist is its greatest secret, about which I may not say more. Pray do not reveal to others what I have inadvertently revealed to you.”
That only increased my confusion. “What can I possibly reveal, other than the term ‘Hidden Archivist’?”
“Nothing, but that would be more than enough to cause considerable difficulties for all involved. At any rate, while I cannot presume to speak for him, I suspect he would be willing to speak to you. Intrigued, possibly. It is hard to say, with him.” He stopped, mused, “And there may be an even more useful opportunity on our way there.”
“I am amenable to whatever you suggest.”
Something about my reply (maybe the speed and certitude with which I said it) made him smile and lean across the table, declaring plans like a Legion’s Pretor. “Excellent. You must be ready to sail with us tonight since we cannot know when the Corrovani ship will arrive and we cannot delay our departure once it has.”
“Honored Tharêdæath—”
“Tharêdæath is quite sufficient.”
“Eh, very well, Tharêdæath: it is my keenest desire to join you, but I may not do so in good conscience unless there are enough berths for my companions, as well.”
He waved a long, graceful hand. “Naturally. S’ythreni communicated not only the nature of your travels, but your fellow travelers. They are not merely allowed; they are very welcome.”
“Thank you!” I started to rise. “I will approach the Uershaeli captain at once to pay our passage—”
His smile told me that I should stop talking. His hand waved me to sink back into my seat. I did both.
“Allow me to clarify; I have hired the ship for the duration of our journey. And it is you who are honoring us with your company, not the other way around. However, while we wait for the Corrovani vessel, it is best that you quit your lodgings promptly.”
“Why?”
He frowned. “Your ancient friend in the mountains is quite correct: Sanslovans do not lavish resources on a single individual’s act of vengeance. And even if they did, Kar Krathauans would not be party to such pettiness. Something else is afoot. I doubt either power is watching for you in Herres, but there is no reason to risk detection, particularly since there is ample space for all of you right here. I will have your friends summoned discreetly and their effects brought shortly after.”
He called in his assistant (?) to take notes as he bade me describe the rest of my companions, the approximate total of each one’s effects, the goods and mounts we had intended to sell and for what sums. He felt our prices were reasonable, but that we would have been hard put to get them since we were transients who obviously meant to leave in short order. He offered to purchase them from us at a rate of twelve silver for every ten we had meant to get from the city’s merchants. I agreed immediately and he instructed his silent aide to have our payment ready by the evening. In gold. After months of relentless penury, it seemed that the avatars of fortune could not stop smiling upon us.
When all the arrangements were finished and Tharêdæath had sent his assistant to settle them, he poured another two fingers of wine and contemplated it. When he finally spoke, he did so in a tone of careful detachment. “If you are amenable, I would offer candid advice about your further researches. I would also suggest an unlooked-for opportunity to realize them.”
I knew from his tone that this would be the conclusion of our conversation. I also discerned that he was setting aside his own reservations by broaching these topics: a signifier of both their importance and sensitivity. That is probably why I remember those last few minutes of our meeting with extraordinary precision. Or perhaps it’s because I dream of them often, every second possessing the same crisp fidelity as the actual conversation.
“I agree with your ancient friend,” Tharêdæath began. “You can no longer rely on books alone. Perhaps not at all, now. If you wish to proceed further, you must have direct access to memories of those times, not narratives constructed decades or even centuries afterward.”
I smiled. “It sounds as though you heard the advice tendered by my ancient friend. Word for word.”
If he heard the lighthearted irony of my comment, he neither acknowledged it nor replied in kind. “I am an Uulamantre,” he answered with a shrug. “Our experience resonates with that of your ancient friend. We hold in memory what most of the world now considers legend, myth, or fairy tales for children. You are lucky to have made its acquaintance. Few beings live such long lives.”
I nodded. “Meaning I am doubly lucky, for now I have met two of you.”
This time, Tharêdæath smiled. “It is refreshing to talk with Dunarrans of your type.”
“What type is that?”
“As you were in ages past. Before the burdens of empire weighed down the exuberance that shone from your young souls and illuminated the world. But that could not last. Even in the act of rising, the sun mutely proclaims that it will one day set.”
“Of course, the sun does always rise again.”
“True, but it is never exactly the same sun. Yours—Dunarra’s—is no different. In succumbing to the arrogance of empire, and now the decrepitude of isolation, your nation’s sun has passed its zenith. It does not matter that you call it a Consentium and that its governance does, in fact, conform to that label. That neither changes its place in the world nor how others see it: as an empire. But it is not beyond possibility that your people could rise anew. After all, it is the exception which makes a rule.”
He studied the faintly green wine in his long, delicate glass and his tone became improbably casual, almost disinterested. “There is a place we shall pass on our way to your homeland. It strikes the eyes as a small archipelago of mesas. In fact, it is the remnant of a sizeable land; it was less than a continent yet more than an island. Even less of it has remained in lore. It is now merely an enigmatic reference in a few tomes, a name for which there is no longer a corresponding place.” His eyes came to rest upon mine.
Encouraged, I asked, “And what is there?”
“Ruins. And in them, memories.”
When I frowned at that puzzling turn of phrase, he laughed lightly. “Even the most soulful Dunarrans have a streak of literalism where they should keep a spark of poetry. I will be plain: there is a library in those ruins. A library almost completely untouched since the cataclysm which shattered that land.”
“So the documents there are contemporary to the epoch most pertinent to my researches.”
“Precisely. They have not been filtered and distorted by the ages. They are the day-to-day accounts and impressions of those who lived at that time, not self-important tracts and treatises.”
“I suppose it is too much to hope,” I ventured carefully, “that anyone would still know the approximate location of this library.”
“It is indeed too much to hope,” Tharêdæath agreed. “And yet, that too would be the exception that makes the rule…no?”
That was almost six weeks ago. We departed two days later and had fine weather, particularly once we entered the tropics. We were joined by another ship, this one recently arrived from Far Amitryea and about which I could learn nothing more; even the usually forthcoming Tharêdæath demurred sharing any details. Presuming he had any to share. It runs no standard and sends no messages. It never comes closer than a mile, but it never strays beyond two.
And today, just as the light was failing and the first moon appeared like a round ghost in the indigo sky, I caught sight of the islands of which Tharêdæath had spoken. They appeared above the horizon the way distant tablelands might above a plain: flat, squarish objects that rose up sharply from the water, their dusty sides bronzed by the setting sun behind us. And on one of the closest, I am told, an ancient library awaits us.
Whatever it might hold, I am filled with both anticipation and foreboding at the change it might bring to my researches. And even my life.
Including, quite possibly, the end of both.