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Watched by Sophereth and her assistants, who were shepherding the school’s girls into the whitewashed lecture hall—Dalia knelt in Matteo’s old, accustomed place set against an eastern wall. It comforted Dalia to think of him as she occupied this rough mat and listened dutifully to Master Parnemedes reciting his traditional welcome to the new students. Though Dalia wished Parnemedes would liven up his speech. Half of Kiyrem’s students failed his classes simply because they couldn’t stay awake during his lectures.
Pinching her wrist, Dalia focused as the reedy, drawling Parnemedes recited in the low monotone-drone that guaranteed listeners would war against dozing off. “... in addition to this, scribes must be honorable, impartial, and diligent to record the truth without adding their own opinions, or worse, opinions of some paymaster—for then they are nothing but scribblers of invented histories....”
Dalia pinched herself again. Just as a nap threatened, the school’s youngest master, Kurcus, sidled into the room, his scholar’s face gawping, astonished as a hooked fish snagged from his placid stream. Moving stealthily, as if creeping would prevent everyone in the room from staring all the more, Kurcus handed Dalia two parchments—one sealed and inscribed from Tragobre, the other from Matteo, opened and half-crushed.
Kurcus had read and besmirched this note from Matteo?
Dalia longed to wring the master’s neck as a poulterer would a scrawny bird’s. Yet, to be fair, the school was pledged to prevent students from receiving notes from unapproved correspondents. At least Kurcus had actually handed her the parchment. Dalia bit her lip. Hard. She must behave; Sophereth was suspicious. Smoothing Matteo’s note—so recently touched by his own hands—Dalia read.
From Matteo of Darzeq to Dalia of Tragobre, in Kiyrem,
Beloved, I’ve no time to write anything but the terrible truth. My lord-father is dead and embalmed—days ago, without our knowledge—and my lady-mother and brothers were massacred in Arimna by the Lady Cthar’s own guard, Gueronn, and his mercenaries. Anji and I have fled with her lord-husband, seeking allies for our cause. If I do not survive, know that I cherished your beloved presence in my life. Pray for us and for Darzeq! I shall send word to you at the first chance—we are riding north to Iydan and possibly to Eshda. My love is ever yours,
Matteo of Darzeq, written by my own hand at Tragobre.
Dalia stared at his clear, Kiyrem-trained script, unable to comprehend his news. Tears blurred the letter, and she closed her eyes hard, refusing to allow herself a much-needed fit of weeping. The king and Matteo’s brothers couldn’t be dead. Nor the queen.... Yet Matteo’s own handwriting proclaimed this news, and Matteo wouldn’t jest about such deaths to save his life.
She opened her eyes, mopped fresh tears, read the note again, and shook her head. Master Kurcus stood beside her, blatantly reading the note once more, his expression still hooked and brought shockingly to ground.
Fighting to organize her thoughts, Dalia sniffled, dabbed her eyes with a corner of her mantle, then took a deep breath. Matteo had been at Tragobre Fortress. For how long? Why hadn’t her parents compelled him to stay, instead of dashing off to Iydan lands? As if Lord Iydan had the gumption to do more than look formal and prance around as ambassador to Belaal. Surely Father could be of more assistance to Matteo!
Master Parnemedes was also staring, his droning lecture conspicuously dangling, unspoken and unfinished. Dalia bowed to him and retreated from the stone hall to the school’s central courtyard, trailed by Kurcus. In the sunlight, Dalia turned and scowled at the distraught master. “Do you wish to read my lord-father’s note as well, sir?”
Kurcus protested, still flustered, “Lady Dalia, it’s hardly my fault that I was compelled to read that first contraband note, and you know it. But is the note true?”
“It must be. It’s Matteo’s writing, and he would never set ink to parchment with such a tale if it weren’t true.” Particularly not relaying the massacre of his entire family. Oh, beloved Infinite, how could this be true? Dalia blinked down another freshet of tears and gulped. She must be coherent, for Master Tredin swept from the hall, his expression and words thunderous in the evening’s slanting sunlight.
“Kurcus, your contract can be revoked for halting a lecture so conspicuously—don’t think Parnemedes won’t mention it. We’ll have to listen to him for weeks concerning this slight. Young lady, are you well? You look green.”
Dalia handed him Matteo’s note, warning, “Sir, I’m leaving. I’ll take Matteo’s letter and leave Kiyrem the instant you’ve finished reading it.”
“Leave?” Kurcus spluttered. “Why ... you can’t! It’s ... it’s forbidden and dangerous! Clearly the mercenaries have been unleashed upon Darzeq!”
Sophereth had joined them, gliding from the lecture hall, regal as any royal. “What’s fetched such disorder? Sir?” She looked her husband in the eyes. Clearly unwilling to speak the appalling news aloud, Tredin handed her the note. Sophereth read it and placed her free hand at the base of her throat as if she could free herself from the near-strangling grip of such ghastly events.
As her teachers stared at each other in horrified silence, Dalia swallowed her unspent tears and held out one hand. “I’m leaving. Now. Give me his note and permit me to pack my gear as you send for the guards.”
Tredin recovered and glowered at her, his most severe look—just short of threatening a beating. “We don’t feed you tripe, young lady, so why are you talking it? You are forbidden to leave.”
“By whose order? I’ve the emergency funds my lord-father placed here for me. I’ll hire guards and then go. Forgive me, but I must find Matteo.”
Sophereth cut her off with a testy glance and a meaningful nod toward Lord Tragobre’s note. “What do your parents say?”
What if she didn’t wish to share Father’s news with them? Dalia hesitated, then opened the note. Best to thrash it all out now. Her teachers would know the truth soon enough.
Father’s slash-ridden script sprawled across the entire parchment, betraying his agitation when he’d written this note.
Daughter,
By now you’ve heard the news from Lord Matteo concerning Arimna—I know he has corresponded with you—and now you know the king, the queen, and the young Lord Matteo’s brothers have all perished. While I perceive your tender sympathies toward Lord Matteo, I require you to think coldly and practice restraint. Tragic as this news is for us, and for Darzeq, we cannot commit ourselves to action until we know that the southern lords will also support his cause.
To commit our household and all Tragobre’s people to Lord Matteo’s defense—and to protest what has happened without knowing the truth—is to risk our lives, perhaps in vain. Until we have proof of the assassins’ identities, we must watch, wait, and remain impartial. Furthermore, I forbid you to communicate with Lord Matteo, lest you be reckoned a traitor. Again, with all the love and concern I bear as your lord-father, I command you to think coldly and practice restraint. For your own safety, remain in Kiyrem until I summon you.
Your lady-mother sends her love and greetings and expects that you write her soon.
Farewell.
By my own hand, written and sealed.
Roi Hradedh, Tragobre
Dalia held the note carefully, lest she lose her temper altogether and tear it to bits. Yes, as Father had commanded, she would try to think coldly and practice restraint. But how could her lord-father restrain himself so callously, then judge Matteo as a liar and possible traitor, after everything Matteo had suffered? Worse, Father had evidently turned him out of Tragobre fortress with no help. All this while ignoring the fact that Matteo was the rightful king!
Dalia growled her frustration, folded the note and bowed to her teachers. “I’ll remain—for now. But, with your permission, may I be excused today’s lectures? I must go to the market.”
Sophereth nodded, and actually appeared sympathetic. “Yes. I’ll accompany you.”
Dalia hid a protest by allowing herself a bout of tears. By the time she finished her shopping, Sophereth would think Dalia an absolute zany. Short of confessing her plans, how could anything but insanity explain her intended purchases of seven-dozen lengths of parchment, endless windings of cordage, numerous pots of ink, and an entire box of wax wafers? Well, for Matteo’s sake, Dalia could endure being named a zany, for she wouldn’t confess her plans.
And if anyone interfered with Dalia’s strategies to help Matteo, then she’d set the wax afire and flee to Eshda.
Swiping her sleeve across her wet face again, Dalia followed Sophereth out of the courtyard. Eshda. Yes, she must go to Eshda.
***
Corban sat near Matteo, Anji, and Ekiael, sharing the coarse journey cakes of grain, fruit, and nuts that had become the staple of their fugitive route from River Tinem North. Corban had enjoyed the cakes well enough, but after several days of eating the things almost exclusively, he was craving seared meat. Stews. Roasted vegetables, and fresh hot bread—none of which would leave him picking seeds and dried fruit from between his teeth for the remainder of the night.
As if he’d been saving the fruit and seeds for snacks.
Finished, Corban shoved the last allotted grain cake into his knapsack, then studied the others, who’d been wearied to silence. Matteo was staring up at the stars and brooding, Anji was leaning against Ekiael, and Ekiael was finishing his ration of journey cakes, gently encouraging the exhausted Anji to do the same.
Corban guessed that Ekiael was some sort of priest to this unknown deity—the One Who Sees. Or the Mighty One—Ekiael prayed using both names. However, for a priest, Ekiael was a sensible man, good with a sword, and a kind enough master that his servants followed him on this bleak journey without complaints. But, for the first time on their journey, they were risking a full night of rest. With the sun setting and with his own emotions becalmed enough to talk, Corban asked, “Sir, Priest, what do you know of Belaal’s prophet, Araine?”
Ekiael shook the few crumbs from his full robes and shrugged. “I don’t know much, sir, except that her name is Araine, and she’s never been mentioned until Lord Sheth returned from Belaal.”
Matteo cleared his throat and looked from the stars to Ekiael and Anji, then to Corban. “All we know, sir, is what my brother Sheth told me just before he died. Araine, Belaal’s new prophet, warned my brother not to return to Darzeq. Apparently, he resisted her suggestion, and she pleaded with him to warn us that disaster was about to strike us all, and Sheth would die. She also warned him to save the youngest. Me, Anji, and her baby. This much, Sheth did—forcing me to swear we’d run. And hide.”
Like a coward.
Corban heard his unspoken thought at the end, and Matteo’s rueful expression emphasized his supposed failing. Did the young man regret being his family’s sole survivor? To distract him, and to satisfy his own curiosity, Corban asked, “Did he mention this Prophet Araine’s appearance?”
Darzeq’s uncrowned king rubbed one hand over his face as if he’d rather not remember his last conversation with his brother. “Sheth described her as my age. A lovely, sheltered young woman who believes her own visions. Belaal’s king obviously believes her as well, for she is his official Prophet of the Infinite.”
“May His Name be blessed forever,” Ekiael added, as Anji murmured drowsy agreement.
The Infinite. All the breath left Corban, drawn away by the cold shock of that Name—the last word he’d heard Araine utter before she vanished.
Infinite.
Apparently not noticing Corban’s shock, Ekiael mused aloud, “Speaking of blessing, Corban, thank you for joining us though we’re a motley band of refugees. You embody your name.”
Relieved by the distraction, Corban mustered a breath. “My name? My parents named me Corban because my hair was black when I was born—that’s all my name means. Black-haired.”
“In your country, perhaps,” Ekiael agreed, his words a pleasant rumble in the darkening evening. “However, in Darzeq, in the language of the priests, ‘Corban’ means, ‘a gift from the Infinite—one that is consecrated to Him.’ Interesting...”
Consecrated to Him? No. A feverish chill crept over Corban’s flesh and he suppressed a shudder. Was this why he felt so pursued? Did the Infinite intend to claim his heart? His soul?
“I’ll continue with ‘dark-haired.’” The words escaped Corban before he could halt them. Noting his listeners’ shocked gazes, he explained, “The Infinite wants nothing to do with me.”
To the Infinite, Corban argued, Why should You? Everything I’ve loved is gone—to You! Don’t You have enough? Why should You call to me?
Almost fatherly, Ekiael interceded, halting Corban’s inner spate of fury. “This is where your battle begins. You must accept that He loves you as His own child. Until your last breath, His hand and His Spirit are extended toward you. It’s not weakness to believe in Him and accept His call—it’s courage!”
“As you say, sir.” To cut off the discussion he’d so foolishly instigated, Corban drew his cloak around himself, settled into the coarse ground-cover and closed his eyes, seeking sleep. Yet inwardly his battle raged amid a silent storm.
Even as a calm, quiet voice beckoned.
Will you be My servant?
Follow Me.
***
A tap at her cell door startled Dalia from prayers. Barefoot, she stood, gathered her gown and robe, then opened her door and peeked outside.
Sophereth lifted an eyebrow at her, as if still concerned for her sanity. Dalia’s stomach knotted its dread as Sophereth slipped into her cell and looked around, her searching glance finally resting on the heap of parchment, wax, cords and ink, all stashed in the far corner of her stark, lamp-lit cell. “Are you well, young lady?”
“No. But I must endure, and so I shall.” Matteo needed her.
“Are you not writing?”
“I will. I could write volumes concerning my grief, yet never express what we’ve lost.”
“Volumes.” Sophereth looked skeptical. “You’ve enough parchment there to write your own library.”
“Perhaps by the time it’s finished my mourning will be done.”
Sophereth looked over Dalia’s head, toward the narrow shuttered window, her gaze seeing beyond it briefly, to another time and place, to some grief of her own. “Mourning is never finished. It’s the tide of an ocean, the current of a river overflowing, then ebbing once more. Your task is to navigate those waters throughout life. And to find the strength to swim. If you need help amid the current, you come to me, young lady. Do you hear me? Never enter deep waters alone.”
Dalia’s throat burned as her eyes stung then welled with tears. How cruel-sweet of this dour schoolmistress to make her cry, and then hug her and pat her back tenderly as if Dalia were a child again. To make her think of the king and queen, who’d ever been gracious and pleased to see her. To make her think of Matteo’s brothers, who were so like the brothers she’d never had. And to make her think of Matteo, abandoned....
As Dalia’s sobs faded, Sophereth stepped away. But she gave Dalia a warning look. “If you’ve any fears, young lady, come find me, no matter what hour of the day or night.”
“Yes, lady. Thank you.” Dalia wiped her face and worked up a half-smile to reassure her doubtful teacher.
As Sophereth closed the door, Dalia paused to question herself. Was she right to sail into this course she’d decided upon amid the overflowing currents of her furious grief? Would her actions help Matteo, and Darzeq?
Perhaps she should instead ask herself if it was right to allow Darzeq to continue in ignorance, leaving Matteo bereft of family, friends, allies, and justice.
Exhaling, Dalia gathered her supplies, sliced the lengths of parchments into roughly halved squares and opened her travel desk. To pay out her grief and to fight for justice, she must wield the weapons of a scribe—an anonymous scribe.
Mourn, Darzeq! Your noble king and his sons have fallen.
Weep as the yellow-eyed queen rejoices, this sovereign of the Chaplet Temple.
Darzeq, who will demand justice when the venomous she-scaln feeds upon your remains?
Who will lament for your six golden lords, slaughtered by her word?
Your future slain by her ambition.
Must the mighty stand silent, shamed and stripped of honor,
while Darzeq’s uncrowned king, calls for shields and swords?
Darzeq, remember your glory....
Scrawling her grief and outrage onto parchment after parchment, Dalia wrote the lament, then copied it repeatedly, signing each note, For Matteo of Darzeq.
One Who Sees, protect him!
***
A jolt snapped Matteo from a sound sleep. Who had swatted him awake? He lifted his head and looked around. Ekiael’s men—the entire household—lay sleeping exactly as he’d noted just before closing his eyes. Ekiael, Anji, and Corban also slumbered on just as they’d been.
Only the stars had shifted, and dawn’s first golden hues seeped through the fringes of the trees around them—revealing the dark silhouettes of perhaps ten approaching warriors, their weapons readied. Too near for Ekiael’s household to flee to their horses and escape unharmed.
Matteo rolled over and shoved at Corban, then Ekiael, calling out. “We’re found! Seize your weapons!”