“Even as the threads of history are unpicked by meddling hands, we shall gather them up and on these very pages weave them into a new, most glorious design.”

AS THE DOOR CLOSED, the little hut was plunged into a gloomy half-light. The corners were shrouded in darkness, but the centre was bisected by two sloping beams of light from the windows in the roof. As Sylas looked down their length, he saw, to his surprise, that they descended far below where the floor should have been into a deep chasm at his feet.

“Do keep up, young Master Tate, time is not our friend!”

Fathray’s voice echoed about him, and then he saw the little old man’s white locks some way below him, bobbing downwards as he descended a spiral staircase. Soon the only evidence of him was the sound of him humming a tuneless melody: a collection of notes that had absolutely no business being together.

Sylas found a metal railing to his right and started to follow.

As he descended, he could sense the closeness of the walls around him and smell the mustiness of the earth.

“What is it with these people and dark places?” he muttered under his breath.

Fathray’s footsteps stopped. “Oh, I’m afraid you must forgive us our love of the shadows,” he called up from the darkness. “We have had to become quite accustomed to tunnelling like rats and living like moles!”

Sylas bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Not at all!” came the cheerful reply.

The footsteps resumed and the old man struck up his peculiar tuneless humming once again.

As he followed, Sylas was relieved to find that soon a new light began to penetrate the gloom. After just a few more twists of the staircase he could see a definite glow rising from below his feet and moments later he had to squint as he looked into a strong white light. He saw a long, narrow chamber criss-crossed by a network of bright beams, just as he had seen in Meander Mill, though here the beams seemed to fulfil a different purpose. They zigzagged across the chamber several times, bouncing between mirrors fixed to the walls, then rose to the ceiling, where they turned sharply downwards, falling on to a series of large, brightly lit wooden desks arranged along the centre of the room. Each of these strained under the weight of great piles of books, scrolls and parchments, and a number of people in white gowns were hunched over them, poring over some or other document. A handful of other people worked feverishly at the rear of the room: stacking, sorting and tying together large heaps of paper and books, then carrying them to a growing mountain halfway along the room.

“Welcome to our burrow, young Master Tate.”

As these words echoed up from the bottom of the staircase, all activity in the room stopped and everyone looked towards the new arrival. Sylas hesitated, then gave a nod of his head. Everyone in the room gave a courteous bow and continued to look at him expectantly for some moments, but when he said nothing, they turned back to their work.

“I’m afraid our little Den of Scribes isn’t much to behold,” continued Fathray, “but it has served us well these twenty years. Come – let me show you around.”

He let Sylas off the bottom step and started to guide him along the row of desks. The floor was made of uneven, hard-packed earth and Sylas had to choose his footing carefully for fear of stumbling. He looked up at the arched ceiling and saw that it too had been carved out of the earth, supported here and there by simple braces of timber. However, the walls on either side were lined with books, documents and papers that had been arranged neatly along shelves that ran the full length of the room. At the top of each panel of shelving was a plaque, upon which was engraved a quotation. The one nearest to them was credited to Paiscion:

 

“Forgetting is a merciless foe. He offers no second chance.”

 

The next he looked at seemed to have been written by Fathray himself:

 

“There is no such thing as too much knowledge, or if there is, that is more than we wish to know.”

 

Fathray swept his hand in front of Sylas’s face. “Here, on this side, we keep the originals and there, on that side, are our labours of love: the transcriptions. The lower shelves—”

“Originals of what?” interrupted Sylas.

“Oh, heavens!” said Fathray, whirling around. “Did Filimaya not tell you what we do down here?”

Sylas hesitated, not wishing to embarrass Filimaya. “Well, no, not… exactly,” he said.

Fathray simply chuckled and wheezed. “Out of sight, out of mind! We tunnel rats are used to it! Eh?” He clapped Sylas heartily on the shoulder.

Sylas smiled quizzically, wondering how he had suddenly been made a fellow rat.

“Well, I’m afraid I haven’t got time for a proper tour,” continued the old Scribe. “That would take days.” He extended his ink-stained finger and drew it along the nearside wall. “See here, these are all of the old documents. Up there–” he pointed with a flourish to the top shelf – “are the histories; below them are the works of learning, particularly on the subject of Essenfayle; below those are journals; then there are government papers and the works of fiction, and finally, down there–” he pointed to the bottom shelf, which brimmed with papers and folders – “are the registers of births and deaths. Rather important, those,” he muttered reflectively, “if we are to remember who we are.”

Sylas looked at the vast collections of registers for a moment, but then his gaze travelled back up to the top shelf, where something had caught his eye. Nestled in among the drab brown histories were three much larger black volumes, embossed with beautiful silver designs. Each of the spines bore the same inscription, marked out in ornate silver lettering:

 

The Glimmer Myth

 

He frowned and mouthed the title under his breath. He was about to ask Fathray what it meant, but the old Scribe pulled him further down the hall, pointing his crooked finger at the long line of desks, which glowed under the beams of light.

“Here is where we scribble – transcribing each and every one of the original documents into new volumes, which are then stored on those shelves.” He pointed to the other side of the room, where long lines of identical brown leather volumes stretched the full length of the room.

“But why are you copying everything?”

Fathray looked down at Sylas, his eyebrows arching over the rims of his spectacles. “To keep them safe! We aren’t just copying them, we’re encoding them! We’re transcribing each text into one of scores of scripts – secret ones – special ones – beautiful ones – ones that only we know. We call them Veil Scripts. Most have been around for centuries, but we are fairly certain that we are still the only ones who can decipher them. That way we know that they can be of no use to anyone but us. Come – I’ll show you some.”

He led Sylas down the length of the room past Scribes writing frantically at their desks, each of them seeming to compete with the next to write faster and in stranger and stranger scripts. Their heads were so low to the tables that they seemed almost to be sniffing at the ink as it met the page and they only raised their eyes to throw an occasional prying glance at each other’s work.

At the far end of the earthen hall they came to a wall shrouded in shadow. With a tiny movement of his hand, Fathray drew a beam of light from the nearest table across the floor and on to the very centre of the wall. Suddenly the entire surface writhed with symbols, shapes and runes, each one carefully inscribed in one of a rainbow of colours. Sylas gasped. Everywhere he looked curves, strokes, designs and characters were entwined with one another, forming a great glistening tapestry of impossible complexity.

“This is our record of every symbol, character and rune available to us,” said Fathray with some pride. “Quite apart from being the prettiest wall in all Gheroth, it’s a wonderful tool. You see, the scripts are arranged in groups of similar types so that we can choose which we need more easily. The colours are absolutely precise, because the colours are just as important as…”

He trailed off. Sylas had taken several steps backwards and was staring open-mouthed at the wall.

“Impossible…” whispered Sylas. “It… can’t be.”

“My dear boy, what’s wrong?”

With some difficulty, Sylas drew his eyes away from the wall and looked into Fathray’s face. “I’ve seen these symbols before.”

Fathray looked puzzled. “Surely not. Where?”

Sylas felt the hairs prickling on his neck.

“In my own paintings.”

There was a silence as Fathray frowned at Sylas as he stared back, both hoping for an explanation.

“But these ciphers are only used by the Suhl,” said Fathray finally. “I’m certain that you are mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken,” said Sylas firmly. “I’ve been painting them for years – on my kites.”

There was another silence as Fathray glanced from Sylas to the symbols.

“Did anyone teach you?”

Sylas shook his head. “No, no one understood why I painted them. My mother helped me, but she never did any painting. She just taught me to use the brushes and she…”

He paused as something seemed to occur to him, then he walked to the wall and peered closely at some of the symbols. “What do you call this colour – this green?”

“Why, I believe we call it Mislehay,” said Fathray.

“And this red?”

“That’s Orivan. Sylas, what’s this about?”

Sylas turned back to the wall and pointed to a large ornate rune depicted in silver. “And this is Girigander, isn’t it?”

Fathray was startled. He stared at Sylas for a moment, stroking his long moustache.

“How did you know?”

“My mother gave me a set of paints…” said Sylas, putting his hands to his head as he struggled to understand, “and they were labelled with those names – labelled in her own handwriting…”

Fathray’s features suddenly became animated and he threw his hands in the air.

“Well, Master Tate, I can assure you that there is no other place she could have learned of these colours than here, from us! They are names that only we use!” He took Sylas by the shoulders and, in his excitement, shook him rather too hard. “This confirms it! You are one of us after all!”

But Sylas felt no such excitement; he felt sick. His mother knew about all this? How could she have known?

Fathray began pacing up and down. “Where is your mother now?”

“In hospital,” muttered Sylas.

Fathray slowed his steps. “She’s unwell?”

“She’s… yes, I mean... I’m not sure.”

“Indeed…” murmured Fathray, frowning.

“It’s just a family thing – my granny was the same… dreams – vivid dreams, that’s all.”

The old Scribe looked intrigued. He regarded Sylas keenly for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the wall. For some time they were both silent, looking intently at the symbols. Finally Fathray drew a long breath and spoke.

“Young Sylas, we know at least one important thing: that for whatever reason you and your mother were connected to us long before you heard the Passing Bell. You certainly were meant to come here. I am now more certain than ever that we are right to help you reach the Magruman. Only he will know what must be done.”

Sylas did not reply. His eyes moved over the great mass of lines and colours on the wall as he thought about the kites and the paints and his mother. None of it made any sense. He had always painted whatever had come into his head – no one had ever taught him. And then there were the paints: where did his mother get them? And how had she known the names of the colours? He stared into the great labyrinth of runes, tracing their intricate lines with his eyes, wondering if she had seen these very symbols – perhaps even known their meaning.

He blinked and turned away, realising that Fathray was still looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “It’s just that I don’t know who I am any more – who my mother was... I mean, is.”

Fathray smiled soberly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Indeed you are a mystery, young man. You are the original – what do you people call them in the Other? Something quaint... yes: you are the original jigsaw puzzle.”

Sylas did not smile or react, but his features slowly filled with a new resolve.

“Fathray, I need you to help me,” he said, looking up at the old Scribe. “I know I’m supposed to go and see this Magruman person, but I need to find out what I can now.” He dropped the Samarok on the table. “This has something to do with it, I know it does. I need you to teach me to read it.”

Fathray hesitated. “But Sylas, these things are not...”

“Don’t tell me it isn’t possible,” he said firmly. “After the last few days I know nothing is impossible.”

The two regarded each other for a moment, Fathray worried and hesitant, Sylas pale but determined.

“I have to know why I’m here,” he insisted.

Fathray looked at Sylas and then at the Samarok. The gems in the cover sparkled more brightly than ever and the strange symbols glowed mysteriously. He ran his fingers over the beautiful cover, enjoying the feel of the leather, the stones, the long S-shaped groove.

“Such a marvellous thing, is it not?” he said. “The answer to so many mysteries.”

He leaned forward and opened the book. It fell open at the page where Sylas had inserted Mr Zhi’s piece of paper. Fathray first picked it up and scrutinised Mr Zhi’s handwriting, then carefully set it down next to the Samarok. For some time he stared at the open pages with an expression of unfettered delight, his eyes flicking over the lines of Ravel Runes. He hummed his artless melody to himself, seeming entirely unaware of how ludicrous it sounded.

Finally he looked up at Sylas and winked.

“Come, young man, I have much to show you.”