35

Ash

“Oh, Marcus.” It’s a panoramic view from the library tower and what a mess. He and De’ral have singlehandedly demolished the obstacle course. Why didn’t I stay at my desk? It’s going in the record now, though as Brogal always says, when you sink to the bottom, there’s only room to rise.

Marcus and Belair better rise fast.

I drag myself from the window, returning to the job of recording. The first step is to copy down the moon phases from the planetary ephemeris. In my original notes, I’d marked them from observation—up until the attack on the headland. With those records gone, the rise and set and “weight” of the moon is one of the many things to confirm and include in both Marcus’s and Belair’s records. I select a hawk quill and thumb over to the new moonrise, the day we left Baiseen.

“Interruption coming.”

I startle and look up. “Talus?”

“Finding everything you need?”

The white-robe woman didn’t make a sound coming up the stairs. Time to solve the mystery, though looking her in the eye makes me fidget.

“Yes, thank you.” How to put this? “Mistress Talus…” Surely, if I misstate her name twice in as many breaths, she’ll correct me.

Her calm expression doesn’t change. “Something I can help with?”

My brow knits. No correction, which is odd. The last thing she looks like is a prankster.

“Actually, no. Master Huewin’s supplied me with everything I need.”

“Then why aren’t you down there with the other recorders, taking in the events?”

I blow my bangs off my forehead. She’s right. I should be there, recording, but happily, I’ve a valid excuse to be here instead, not on the field, noting every fall and stumble. “I thought I’d give Marcus and Belair a day to settle in.”

“That bad?” Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile.

I admit, I’m a bit taken aback. “They’re green-robes,” I say in a rush. “They’ll both be magnificent, given time.” I choke on my words as a vision of Marcus’s warrior crushing men and horses beneath him comes to mind.

Her eyes darken and she turns away. “Time is what they don’t have.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Pardon me, Mistress?”

Talus goes to the high arched window and I join her. “There they are.”

I watch in silence. Marcus’s phantom turns again toward the library, and I send a thought out to him. “Can you pay attention to Marcus? This is a competition, remember?”

When I turn around, I find myself alone. “Talus?”

Chills skitter down my spine as I look toward the stairwell and back up the rows of books. Nothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe I imagined her.

What with the tapping at my window again last night, it’s not a calming thought. Still, I go back to work. When I reach my desk, a book sits open on top of the stack. “Where did you come from?”

I glance around one last time for Talus. So odd.

I’m about to flip the book closed when the symbols in the middle of the page catch my eye. I trace them with my finger, exhaling long and slow. Two spirals, each spinning opposite directions, overlapping in a fancy knot. They look similar to the twin circles I’ve seen multiple times since the apothecary’s notice in Clearwater. I frown, studying the image closer. The script looks much like what Master Brogal called Retreen, waving it off as a dead Tangeen language. Nothing but an auction list, he’d said, but in the margins of a song book about the Mar?

I check the title and see it’s a Sierrak text on planets and stars; not where I’d expect to find a dead language from Tangeen. This passage actually looks like the ancient Sierrak script of the stargazers, Retoren. I don’t speak it, but Kaylin pocketed the notice on the docks. I’ll have to ask him.

“Ash?”

I jump. “Master Huewin.”

Is everyone part cat here? The library keeper smiles down on me without showing any teeth. He’s in a long orange robe, different from the quilted robes and pants the savants in training wear, but more like Yuki’s. The hem brushes the floor and his cuffs cover all but his bony fingertips. “How’s the recording going?” His brows rise. “Have everything you need?”

“I’ve made a start, thank you. The reference materials are very helpful.” I smile warmly at the bookshelves surrounding me. “I’ll enter my notes into the new record books next week. I so appreciate the ones you reserved for me. They’re lovely.”

“I know a sketch artist who might contribute to the Heir’s record, and the Tangeen’s as well, unless you have skills?”

My inner voice laughs, and I have to agree. “I draw like a toddler.”

Master Huewin chuckles. “Then I will make the introduction.”

“Appreciated. And what about maps? Since our route here was a bit off course, I would like to include one.”

His smile turns brittle. “Naturally.”

His uncomfortable expression makes me hesitate. Yuki reacted strongly to the Ferus River Falls. I decide to say nothing further on it, for now.

“Hali, the artist I have in mind, has cartography skills. She’s well-versed in all the coastal terrain. I’ll send her to you tomorrow.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Is there anything else?”

I don’t skip a beat. “May I trouble you with a query, Master Huewin?”

“No trouble at all. We expect recorders to use their time on Aku to the best of their advantage.”

I smile with my mouth closed as well. “I’m confused about a language.”

“Which one?”

“Retreen. I might have it confused with the old Sierrak Retoren.”

He remains placid, save for a twitch above his right eye. “Though they sound similar, Retreen is a Tangeen tongue, used mostly for commerce. Retoren is a poetic and spiritual language of the Sierrak savants.” His brow knits. “Why do you ask?”

“Is this Retreen?” I show him the script in the planetary text.

“Where did you find this book?”

“On my desk. I thought you put it there for me.” My words tumble out. “It matches a bit of script Master Brogal identified for me as Retreen.”

“What script?”

I cough to stall. Brogal mustn’t be incriminated. He’s done so much for me, but I’m not sure how to back out of this now. “I came across a scroll, a snippet really. It turned out to be a list, a manifest of cattle—”

“According to whom?”

“High Savant Brogal.” What else can I say? “I thought he said it was Retreen but…” I am talking too much, unable to stop. “I guess I was confused and heard him wrong,” I finish lamely.

Huewin taps his thumb on his temple, an odd gesture. “This is neither, but a tongue from Gollnar, no longer in use.”

“Is it? My mistake.” Except it’s not.

“Don’t worry. You have much to learn. For a student your age, you’re doing well.”

The hairs on the nape of my neck bristle. Why are these masters sending me around in circles? “And what would Retoren look like, exactly? You make it sound so interesting. I would love to see.”

“What it looks like, exactly, you are not ranked high enough to know.” He presses his lips together, no smile. “Keep studying, Ash, and on your next journey here you may be advanced far enough along the path to read such scripts.” Huewin frowns at my turquoise robes. “Ah, but I forget. You’re non-savant, and here only by the grace of the Baiseen Magistrate. It’s doubtful you’ll return to these halls in this lifetime.”

“Charming man, this librarian.”

Unlike my inner voice, I lack the patience for sarcasm. And I’m liking the master librarian less and less. “But would I be able to see the language script, for inspiration? I wouldn’t read it—how could I—but just to know that I’ve viewed it would be such a motivation along the path.” I pour it on thick like honey, though I’m so angry I could choke. Only here by the grace of the Magistrate? Well, it’s true, but my skills are not what’s lacking.

Huewin makes a great show of deliberating. “Very well. I can authorize a glimpse, under supervision, but it will mean nothing to you, except symbolically. Retoren takes much time and dedication to learn. There are seventy-two letters in its alphabet, and the conjugations are extensive, each verb having multiple aspects of gender, phantom, mood, color. As I said, it’s for those much further along the path.” Huewin walks to the other side of the bookcase and I follow, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out behind his back.

He takes a key from a ring on his pocket chain and opens a glass case. “This is Retoren as written by the savants of the High Sierrak Plains.” He unrolls the parchment with great care. “I am not allowed to translate it for you, and please don’t mention to anyone you had this glimpse.” He holds his brittle smile in place. “It will be our secret.”

Caterpillars crawl under my skin, but I turn my focus to the old scroll. Immediately, the edges catch my eye. What I’m looking at can’t be Sierrak anything. “Beautiful,” I say aloud while scrutinizing the papyrus.

It’s from Gollnar, ancient Gollnar, hence it being under glass, I imagine. There is no way it can have fallen into Sierrak hands or originated there. I’m certain because, up until several hundred years ago, the Gollnarians took an extra step in the preparation of the pulp for their writings; they added a “secret” ingredient, chenopodia, a beet-like bulb growing only in the wild, now extinct from overharvesting. Chenopodia produced papyrus less prone to wrinkling.

It also left a faint mauve hue at the edges, like this one before me has.

My scroll-crafting instructor at Baiseen was from Gollnar, and she showed us just where to look to identify these antiquated texts. With the age of this scroll and the time periods involved in the use of chenopodia, it is not what Huewin claims. Sierrak and Gollnar didn’t communicate in that era. By the time they did, chenopodia was no more.

“Now you have seen Retoren. Keep it to yourself.”

“I will, but master, this is from a savant sect in Sierrak, correct?” I have to be sure I haven’t misunderstood.

“Exactly. It is used only to teach the deepest of spiritual knowledge.” He speaks as if the notion of “spiritual knowledge” is far beyond my comprehension.

And who knows? Maybe he’s right, but if I had more of that “spiritual knowledge,” I wouldn’t use it to shame those who had less. “Hmmm,” I say aloud, trying to sound reverent.

Huewin rolls up the scroll before I can take a second look, but I catch enough familiar words—flood, rain, famine—to make an educated guess. It reads like an account of the Time of the Floods, a story told by all the realms in slightly different ways. No secret spiritual mystery here. I’m guessing age is the only reason it’s under lock and key.

“Now, Ash, with your curiosity sated, I will leave you to your work.” He turns and retreats down the stairs.

I’m left standing alone on the second floor, completely mystified. After a long search through the library card filing system, I make my way to the very top level of the tower and into a room called “Ancient References.” There I find the dictionary I’m after. It has a single mention of Retoren:

Reto-rene

1. of or pertaining to the ancient Retorie stargazers of northern Sierrak.

2. any obscure and seldom written language. Abbreviation: Rt, RT.

3. the language used by the founders of the Sierrak Planetary Guild including the Brothers of Anon. Abbreviations: BOA.

I blink and read again. “Brothers of Anon?” From the fabled Sanctuary of Avon Eyre? The one surrounded by ice at the top of the world? Could it be real?

The more I uncover, the more information I seem to need.

My mood brightens. There’s a certain crafty someone who might join my cause, and I shall try to recruit him tonight. But the mirth fades when I gaze out the narrow tower window overlooking the field. Far below, the entire training grounds is in ruins. “Oh, Marcus. This isn’t good.”