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  I needed to make amends before anything else. “Lady Bryndine, I didn’t mean to insult you. I apologize if my words caused any distress.” The last thing I wanted was to make an enemy of this woman. Even if she had not been armed, she looked as though she could pick me up and swing me one-handed. And as the King’s niece and daughter of the Lord Chancellor, there were things far worse than simple violence that she could do to me.

  It was often said that Bryndine’s blood was flawed, that her mother’s low birth drove her to follow the soldier’s path, but she spoke with the ice-cold arrogance of a trueborn noble. “I know what you meant, Scriber. And I would appreciate it if you addressed me by my proper rank. I am a Captain in the King’s Army.” Though her unnaturally solemn face made it difficult to judge, she seemed to have taken my earlier jest in the worst possible spirit. But I was used to people thinking poorly of me—if she was not going to give me a fair chance, at least it meant I could give up playing so polite.

  “As you wish, Captain. What would you have of me?” My tone made the title an insult, and I pointedly lowered my eyes to the burning tree at her chest, where a gold-stitched numeral would have indicated the company of a true soldier of the King’s Army. There was nothing there. Though Bryndine and her women wore the uniform, they lacked any kind of formal authority. But if my intended slight struck home, she gave no sign, which only frustrated me more.

  “Might I see your pin first?” She glanced at the Scriber’s pin on my collar. It was wise of her to be careful—I might easily have been a backwoods charlatan—but it did not sit well with me. Not coming from a woman who herself was pretending at being a soldier.

  I unfastened the small gold pin and slid it across the table. “Sworn and pinned at the Academy, Captain Bryndine. Six years ago now.” The pin was slightly over an inch high, a quill-and-inkwell of gilded bronze, engraved with the Old Elovian phrase that encompassed everything about the Scribers: “Voia Rae”—“Never Forget”. Like most Scribers, my livelihood depended on my pin. Without one, the practice of medicine is illegal, and it is extremely difficult for the unpinned to find work in other Scriber dominated fields.

  Bryndine took the pin with large, surprisingly deft fingers, flipping it over to check the other side, where my name was engraved. She knew that much at least—barring obviously poor gilding, the most reliable way to identify a fake pin is to check the back, and not only to see if the name matches. A genuine pin is gilt only on the front; on the back, the exposed Scriber-made bronze has a brilliant red-gold shine. Fakes tend to be dull and lusterless, or simply gilded entirely, hiding the metal beneath.

  “Dennon Lark?” She made a question out of my name, and I nodded in response. Satisfied, she handed the pin back and I fastened it to my collar, dreading the reaction that was sure to follow. But if she recognized my name, she chose not to comment. I gave silent thanks to the Mother and the Father for that. The worst thing that could happen to my life in Waymark was for word to spread about my past.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Scriber. When impostors of your order crop up, it tends to be in out of the way villages like this one.”

  “Of course, Captain Bryndine.” But forgiveness was far from my mind. It was galling that the Bloody Bride herself would think me an imposter—from everything I had heard, the woman was only allowed to bear arms and armor because her father was the King’s brother.

  “Well, then. I have an injury that requires treatment.” She stretched her left arm out on the table, finally allowing me the glimpse I had been seeking. I saw immediately that it was no minor complaint; I was surprised she could speak without wincing. Her sleeve was torn up to the elbow, and beneath it her wrist and forearm were badly swollen, messily wrapped in a bloody piece of fabric. Through gaps in the makeshift bandage, an ugly gash was visible, splitting the flesh from the back of her wrist to a few inches beneath the elbow.

  “How did you come by a wound like that out here, Captain?” I asked, genuinely intrigued. That something had brought the King’s niece this far out into the back roads of the Kingsland was a curiosity by itself, but the wound added an entirely new level of strangeness to the story.

  “Perhaps we could move this to your home, Scriber,” Bryndine said, evading my question. “I would prefer to have this dealt with quickly, if possible. I must rejoin my company by morning—I would not have delayed here if Sylla had not insisted on taking me to a Scriber.”

  I fancied that she was struggling to hide her impatience under that composed veneer. The thought made me smile. “I am here to serve, Captain,” I said, getting to my feet and tucking Illias’ letter into my belt. “You saw my shingle, you know the way.”

  All of Waymark was visible from the front stoop of the Prince’s Rest. A single street divided the village in half, with a makeshift town square in the middle where the dirt road split to circle a crumbling stone well and the large fireleaf tree that grew beside it. There were seven homes on the east side of the street, nine on the west, and that was the entirety of Waymark. The Rest sat on the east side, directly before the square, and my own cottage with its badly painted Scriber shingle was across the road and just a few homes down to the south.

  It was a brisk autumn evening outside, and a cool breeze blew from the northeast, down from the Salt Mountains. I wrapped my arms tight around my chest for warmth as a gust blew through the boughs of the large fireleaf in the square, making the bright red leaves dance like flame.

  Bryndine jogged around the side of the building to let Sylla know where we were going. She was apparently unaffected by the cold, and I was embarrassed by my own reaction. I unfolded my arms briefly, but decided that my pride wasn’t worth the effort as another chill wind wound its way down the street, raising gooseflesh on my skin. When Bryndine returned moments later, I was hunched once more against the cold, and more annoyed than ever at her seeming immunity to it.

  “You needn’t have waited, Scriber. I know where your home is.” Bryndine seemed surprised that I was still there, which bothered me—she apparently didn’t think me capable of even a simple courtesy.

  “I’ve been told it’s not proper to let a member of the royal family wander the streets alone, Lady Bryndine,” I replied. I hoped that something in that would sting, either the failure to use her rank or the implication that she needed an escort, but I was disappointed in both cases. I can’t say why, but her perfect composure irritated me as much as anything ever has. It was childish, and very likely unwise, but as I hurried down the street towards my home, trying to keep pace with Bryndine’s long strides, I made a vow to myself that I would get a reaction out of her before the night was over.

  The warmth as we entered my small cottage was a wondrous thing, bringing life tingling back into my fingers and toes. I gestured Bryndine towards a chair at my work table and began to gather my supplies as she sat and unwrapped her wound, laying her arm across the table. When I had what I needed, I sat down across from her, taking her arm and probing it with my fingertips.

  “Well, it isn’t broken, but from the swelling at the wrist I’d guess you’ve sprained it in addition to the cut. It may be important for me to know how you came by such a wound, Lady Bryndine.” I continued to eschew her military rank in the hopes of prompting a scowl, but she seemed to have given up that battle already. As I spoke I doused the gash with alcohol to clean it, but even that failed to make her flinch.

  “It was nothing exciting, Scriber. My company is spread across the area doing routine scouting. I was tending my horse when something startled her and made her kick. I was lucky it was only my arm she caught.”

  “Last I checked, the King’s Army doesn’t routinely do anything in these parts, Lady Bryndine.” I passed a thread through the eye of my needle, and pressed the point against her skin. “This will hurt,” I warned as I pushed the needle through flesh.

  “We do not normally come this far, it is true, but these are difficult times, Scriber. Has news of the unrest in the baronies reached you
here?” She did not so much as gasp as I sewed up her wound, though I made a point of being rougher than necessary. Nothing affected the woman; it was infuriating.

  “A little, m’Lady. There is talk of rebels putting villages to the torch around Three Rivers.” Illias’ letters had touched on the subject in the past. Moments later, I realized what she was saying, and my stitching came to an abrupt stop. “Are you saying that the Army expects them to strike here? What statement could they possibly make by attacking Waymark?” I forgot briefly about trying to anger Bryndine; the thought of the village burning was a sobering one.

  “We believe that they seek to prove the royal family has failed to uphold Erryn’s Promise. Striking at areas the Army is not actively protecting would be the easiest way to make their point.” Her face betrayed no emotion, but she looked away as she spoke. “Each time the Army fails to stop one of these attacks, more people begin to talk about how the Promise has been broken.”

  She was silent for a long while as I finished stitching her wound and tied off the thread. I opened my mouth to fill the silence, but just then something snapped her out of her reverie.

  “But you have nothing to worry about, Scriber,” she said. “We found no sign of these so-called ‘Burners’. Sylla and I are rejoining the rest of my company in Barleyfield to return to Three Rivers.”

  Relieved, I began to wrap her arm with cotton bandage. “You’ll want to replace the bandage quite often,” I said. “And clean the wound when you do, to make sure it doesn’t fester.”

  “I have a Scriber in my company. I will have her see to it when we regroup.”

  “Fine. Just be sure to rest the arm until the swelling goes down and the wound heals.”

  Bryndine shook her head. “Just bind it tightly, Scriber. If I should need my shield arm, I will tolerate some pain.”

  “And risk injuring it further? Don’t be foolish, Lady Bryndine.”

  “I will try to follow your advice, Scriber, but if the need arises, my duty takes precedence. Please, bind it tightly; it will be fine.”

  “I’m sure you know best, m’Lady,” I muttered, wrapping the bandage as tightly as I could. Sky and Earth, she thinks I’m a complete fool. She had no intention of following my advice, I was sure; she had formed an opinion of me after my hasty words at the inn, and couldn’t be bothered to listen to me now. Why should she? She was Bryndine Errynson, daughter to Elarryd Errynson, who was King Syrid’s brother and Lord Chancellor of the realm. Royal blood ran in her veins. Why should she listen to me? I’m only a trained, educated Scriber.

  “You likely won’t find any need to use the arm anyway,” I said as I tied off the bandage and stood up from the table. “Not on tame patrols like this one. It is very kind of the King to make sure his niece is kept safe.”

  She stared at me silently for a moment, and I thought for certain that I had gotten to her, but she only stood and took a silver coin from her purse, dropping it on the table.

  “Goodbye, Scriber Dennon,” was all she said as she strode swiftly to the door; she left without waiting for a reply. I had never managed to make her so much as blink, and it rankled me. She left as assured of her superiority as when she came.

  It was late by then, but before I retired for the night I made an entry of the day’s events in my journal. A Scriber’s habit, that; deeply ingrained in me by Master Illias over eight years at the Academy. My record of the meeting with Bryndine was not kind to her, but it was unlikely that anyone would ever read it—I simply needed a way to release my frustration. In truth, I expected that I would never see Bryndine Errynson again.

  Chapter Three

  Sometimes I need to remind myself that a Scriber swears his oath to the people of the Kingsland, not to the King. We swear to pursue the advancement of all knowledge and the rediscovery of all that which has been lost, and to serve the people in whatever way is needed—anything from teaching children to providing medical treatment. I swore that oath, and I truly believe in it.

  But by the Father above and the Mother below, I loathe serving the people.

  — From the personal journals of Dennon Lark

  It did not take long to put Bryndine out of my mind the next morning—I had little peace from the moment I woke until I retired that night. Before I had even made it to the Prince’s Rest for breakfast I had to see to Darlia Ginnis’ little boy, crying over a scraped knee that made me wonder if he had been playing in a bed of nails.

  At breakfast, Josia harangued me into writing a letter to her husband Hareld, two days late returning from Barleyfield. The messenger who had delivered Illias’ letter late the previous day had stayed the night and would be heading back that way shortly.

  No doubt Hareld had lost track of time while enjoying the company of a cheap prostitute or gambling away their savings. Only Josia believed him when he said the monthly trips were to “check in with friends in the business”. For all that her constant chatter bothered me, she was still a decent woman, and she deserved better than her ass of a husband. But there wasn’t a suspicious bone in Josia Kellen’s body, and I did not want to get involved, so I kept my mouth shut.

  When I was done with Josia, Penni Harynson showed up at my door for her weekly lesson. She ostensibly wanted to learn her letters, but never absorbed a thing; the girl was an idiot. She only came because at seventeen, she was of an age to be married, and she had decided the local Scriber would make a better husband than Logan Underbridge’s fat son Jason. Compared to that pimple-faced adolescent I was positively dashing, I suppose, despite being almost thirteen years Penni’s senior.

  I have never been an overly handsome man, but Penni chose to focus her flattery on my black hair and apparently “soulful” green eyes, ignoring my scrawny frame, narrow face, and over-long nose. After a fruitless hour trying to get her to write even one word correctly, I threw her out until she was ready to stop acting like a lovesick child. She left petulantly, telling me not to expect her back the next week.

  On the way to the Rest for lunch, I was accosted by Ashton Norgand. His wife Carine was heavy with child and ready to give birth any day, and they called for me every time she so much as felt a chill. This time she was certain the baby was coming because she had a headache; it was not, of course, and I was forced to spend an hour pretending to examine her in order to convince her of that. I preferred that to actually having to deliver a babe, though—I can’t abide the mess, or all of the shrieking that tends to come with childbirth.

  After lunch came the worst part of my day: teaching the local children. I have no fondness for children, nor they for me, and every lesson went much the same. I would try to teach them of King Erryn and the Burning; they would demand stories about the tree spirits called the Wyddin, the jealous first children of the Mother and Father who sought vengeance on mankind for stealing away their parents. I would explain that the Wyddin were only legends, religious allegories; they would ask who it was, then, that Erryn fought with a sword of fire to conquer the Kingsland. I would move on to the Forgetting and King Ullyd; they would scream and rub snot in each other’s hair.

  Getting the children to remember anything I taught them was an impossible battle—yet if I asked any one of them about Waymark’s history, they would offer up a wholly false story about the Lost Prince without hesitation. The hours I spent teaching them were never less than excruciating, and it was no different that day.

  I ate a late dinner at the Prince’s Rest, as always. Logan Underbridge and several other men chose that evening to stop by for drinks, and I was forced to listen to them gossip about the other villagers and give superstitious explanations for the sickly crops and poor harvests of the last year. Given the size of the Rest, I could not avoid being pulled into the conversation, though I tried to stay silent. Night had long since fallen by the time I extracted myself. It was then, on my way home, that I noticed something extremely curious.

  The fireleaf tree in the village square was shedding leaves.

  This would no
t have seemed such a momentous thing to most, but a Scriber knows things most do not. And one of those things is that a fireleaf—unique among all trees—never sheds its foliage, not throughout the autumn and winter months, not in the most violent of winds. Those flame-red leaves leave their branches only when they are torn off by human hands. Most of those leaves would have grown there for hundreds of years; some of them might even have budded nearly a thousand years ago, when the first trees began to grow back after the Burning. And yet, a thin circle of a dozen or so now littered the ground in the middle of Waymark.

  I wondered when they had begun to fall. I had not noticed it before that moment, but I might easily have missed one or two, hidden behind the thick trunk of the massive tree—it was unlikely that they had all fallen while I was eating dinner. I picked a leaf from the ground and peered at it closely. Bright crimson at the center faded to a lighter orange-red around the edges; a wide base narrowed into a sharp, slightly curled point at the top. It truly looked like a lick of flame sitting in the palm of my hand, which of course was where the name came from. In the First Forest south of Timberhold the fireleafs budded green, but throughout the rest of the realm they grew red, and it was tradition among the Plains barbarians who had founded the Kingsland to name a thing by its most familiar traits.

  Were the leaves falling all over the Kingsland, or just in Waymark? Was it natural, or the result of some sickness or infestation? The questions flitted through my head, but I had no answers. This was a matter for the School of Sciences, and my primary discipline was History. I didn’t have the expertise to pursue the matter.

  I thought I heard a voice then, a faint whisper floating past my ears. There was something terribly sad in the sound, though I could not make out the words. When I looked around for the speaker, no one was there. But I could not shed the sense of unease that had taken hold of me, and I hurried towards the safety of my home.