“I thought you were pinned in History, not Politics, Scriber Dennon.” Bryndine smiled very slightly at me—more than I was used to, from her. “It is worth trying.”
“Master Illias!” Sister Olynna called out impatiently. “Are you quite done?”
Illias turned to her with a smile. “Done, Eldest Sister? No, I rather think I am just beginning.”
* * *
The plan worked perfectly. Though they did not like it, the Eldest had little choice but to let Illias proceed with the dig—they were unwilling to openly offend the royal family when simply waiting a week would rid them of Illias just as surely.
The women embraced the work with enthusiasm. It gave them reason to stay together—as well as payment for their services, as Illias still commanded the coffers of the School of History—for at least another week. By the next day, the excavation was well under way.
I could not enter the Old Garden myself, of course, but the Lord Chancellor’s manor was only a short distance away. Despite the embarrassing circumstances by which I had first come there, I was allowed to stay. In fact, when Bryndine told them of my role in keeping her company together, her parents welcomed me quite warmly. Unlike most of Bryndine’s relatives I had met, Elarryd and Branwyn Errynson were nothing but supportive of their daughter’s desire to serve the Kingsland.
Wynne acted as a messenger, keeping me apprised of their progress. At first she had little to report, but her passion for the work was evident even when she could tell me nothing but that they had removed more rubble from the Underground chamber beneath the Garden. The girl really should have been a Scriber. I found myself wishing I could share in her enthusiasm. But whenever I saw her I felt only stomach-twisting dread—every time, I was certain that she had come to tell me of some awful disaster.
With little to do but wait for Wynne’s visits, I spent my first free day reacquainting myself with the twisting streets of Three Rivers. It was a different town than it had been when I left five years before. Always crowded, it was doubly so now with the constantly arriving refugees, yet the lively, animated quality that had once possessed the Kingsland’s capital was gone. People still haggled with merchants, but they did it desperately, with the implication that a lower price might mean survival for another day. Many begged for food, though there was little to be found; with the crops in Three Rivers and the Bridgefort failing, people horded what they had. Children no longer played in the streets—they stayed to their homes, or their tents in the filthy sprawl beyond the walls. What bound the city now was not a sense of community, but a sense of fear.
Everyone I spoke to had a different tale or rumor about the Burnt: that they could command the weather, make crops wilt and decay, even control minds. But for the most part, people would not speak at all. Even my Scriber’s pin was not enough to quell their distrust. With so many joining the Burnt, any stranger was treated as a threat. Thinking back to that night in Waymark, when Hareld Kellen had charged at me with an axe, I could hardly blame the frightened citizens for their reluctance to trust a new face.
After that day, I kept to the Lord Chancellor’s manor. I was already hated by most anyone who knew my name, and wandering the streets with the mood in the city being what it was felt like tempting fate.
On the fourth day of digging, Wynne arrived at the manor, breathless with excitement, to tell me that they had cleared enough debris to begin searching for the theoretical passage under the west wall. She assured me that safety was their first concern, but still I sent her back to Illias with a warning to proceed cautiously.
That night I lay awake in bed, consumed with the fear that morning would bring terrible news. When I did finally fall into sleep, it was a sleep plagued by nightmares of men dying under falling glass and stone.
The next morning, when the servants woke me shortly after sunrise to tell me Wynne had arrived, I knew beyond doubt that the worst had happened. With growing terror, I dressed myself and descended the stairs to meet her, my heart beating so wildly that I feared it might shatter my chest.
And then I saw her face, and I realized why she had come—the reason that I had tried so hard not to consider, had scarcely even thought possible.
Her expression was one of absolute elation. “We found it, Scriber Dennon,” she said. “You were right!”
Chapter Seventeen
The story goes that when the Mother and the Father wanted children, they first created the Dragon, the Sea God, collector of damned souls. He was too powerful and tempestuous, and he denied their love. Then they created the Wyddin, but the tree spirits were subservient to their core, and sought only to please their makers. The final, favorite children of the gods were humans, who were mortal and thus reliant on divine guidance, but also possessed dreams and desires of their own.
But humans could not live in the primordial realm where Earth and Sky were one, so the Mother and the Father created the Divide, separating the realms—and themselves—forever. Should they ever cross the Divide to be together, it will collapse and the Sky and Earth will rejoin, destroying mankind. For our survival, they sacrificed a love beyond mortal ken.
The vast majority of Kingslanders believe that story. Needless to say, ruining the oldest and holiest of Gardens has somewhat harmed my reputation.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
“The King can go swim with the Dragon for all I care, Denn. You are coming with us,” Illias insisted.
For the second time that week, I stood outside the huge dome of the Old Garden’s entrance. Acting on Illias’ command, Wynne had practically dragged me from the manor towards the Garden, explaining the situation as we walked: they had uncovered the westward passage just before dawn after working throughout the night, and by sunrise, had cleared the old tunnel enough to pass through. At that point, Illias had decided that they would go no further unless I was there—despite the fact that I was forbidden by royal decree to enter the building.
“Illias, we’ve discussed this! Even if I was willing to disobey the King, I wouldn’t go in there.” I could barely even look at the building without seeing the faces of the men who had died there. Bryndine had talked me into helping from a distance if I could, but I was not ready to do more than that—entering the Old Garden was out of the question.
“You only need to enter the Garden to reach the tunnel,” Bryndine said. “You will be within the walls for mere moments. I think we can justify that to my uncle.” She was becoming as bad as Illias. Neither of them would give me any peace.
Wynne shifted impatiently, eager to get underway. “Just think what we might find down there! You have to come, Scriber Dennon.”
“Just go,” I said. “I’ll be waiting to help interpret anything you find. You don’t need me.”
“But I
want
you there,” Illias replied. “This is your discovery, Denn.” He threw his hands up in frustration. “Damn it to the Dragon, you need to find a way beyond all this self pity!”
I rubbed at my temple. “I said I would help, and I will. Why is that not enough?”
Illias had never look so annoyed with me. With a level of anger usually reserved for his fellow Council members, he said, “Because I didn’t teach you to sit and wait while others do your work for you!”
My own anger flared in response. “And what a disappointment I must be! You’ll never let it go, will you? You are not my teacher anymore, Illias! You’re just an old man trying to use me to prove you haven’t wasted your life, and I
can’t
!”
He struck me across the face. Hard. The force of the blow reopened the gash on my bruised cheek, and I cried out in pain.
“Wasted my life?” Illias’ face twisted with a rage I had never before seen in him. “
Never
say that to me again, boy! I do not need you, or anyone, to prove the worth of my life!”
I stared at him open-mouthed. This was the gentle, kindly man who had raised me, and yet I barely recognized him now. I wanted to apologize, but in the face of such fury, I could not find the words.
“If none of my students ever amounted to anything, I would still not count it a waste. But you, Denn—you are worse than that by far. I almost wish that you
were
a failure. It would be easier to take than this… cowardice! You could accomplish great things, if you were not so paralyzed by the thought of making a single mistake!”
I had never felt so small in all my life. It was bad enough to be torn down by the one man whose opinion I valued above all, but to have it witnessed by others was worse still. Bryndine’s expression betrayed nothing, but the disappointment on Wynne’s face was unbearable.
And Illias was not done. “I am not the one wasting my life, Dennon. You are. And it breaks my heart.” His anger was fading, but the sorrow that replaced it was no easier to take. “You
will
come with us, or I swear by the Divide, I am done with you.” He half-turned away, as though he couldn’t bear to look at me.
I couldn’t speak; I wanted to cry.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was going to help.
Bryndine stepped towards me and grasped my arm. “Master Illias, do you mind…”
Illias gave a brusque wave of his hand, and Bryndine led me a short distance away.
“We spoke of this, Scriber.” Bryndine’s grey eyes looked like steel as she fixed me with a stern gaze. “You need to come with us.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” she said, “but you are afraid to.”
I jerked my arm from her grasp. “Yes. I admit it, I’m afraid. I’m a coward. You were right from the beginning.” It always came back to this. No one made me feel inadequate quite as well as Bryndine.
“Fear doesn’t make you a coward, Scriber. But you may want to consider what this fear will cost.” She looked pointedly back at Illias.
I am done with you
, he had said. Illias was the only family I had. I could not lose him. And I would only be in the Old Garden for a moment. Much as I didn’t want to admit it after all the fuss I had made, Bryndine was right.
Still, I was not quite willing to
admit
that she was right, at least not to her face. Instead, I shouldered past her and strode towards Illias. The old man turned to face me as I approached, but I kept my head down—it was too difficult to meet his eyes just then. My voice lodged in my throat, but I forced myself to speak. “Illias, I’m sorry,” I whispered, staring at my feet. “I’ll come.”
It was not Illias who answered.
“I think not, Scriber Dennon.” Sister Olynna’s voice. Startled, I turned to see her approaching, led by a young Sister whose hair barely reached past her ears.
“How fortunate that Sister Gretyl came to me in time,” Olynna continued. “I only thought to look at this tunnel of yours, but now I see that the Mother brought me here for another reason.”
Illias rounded on her, his ire finding a new target. “I can have the women collapse what is left of this place with a word. Is it worth that much to you to stop Dennon from passing through?”
He was bluffing; Illias would never deliberately destroy a historical site. Sister Olynna had to suspect as much, but still the threat left her speechless for a moment—the Eldest were not accustomed to dissent.
“You… you are not serious, Master Illias. You have sworn oaths against doing such a thing, and the punishment would be—”
“The punishment would be too late. The Garden would still be gone.” He spoke with such intensity that I almost believed it, despite everything I knew about the man.
Olynna turned to Bryndine. “You would not allow your women to do this.”
I found myself holding my breath as I waited for Bryndine’s response. She could undermine Illias with a word, and she might—lies and threats were not her way. The side she chose would very likely decide the issue, and I realized with some surprise that I was not sure which resolution I would prefer.
“It is not for me to allow or disallow, Eldest,” said Bryndine. “I am no longer their Captain.”
“It is your choice, Olynna.” Illias gestured to the dome behind him. “Let Denn through and we will follow the passage away from here and leave the Garden in peace. It costs you nothing.”
The Eldest Sister looked us over with a cold eye. “Fine, then. Bring him with you. But I will not be silent about this, Illias. The people will know of your sacrilege. The King will know.”
“If we find what we are looking for, nothing you say will matter,” Illias replied. “And if we do not, you would always have condemned us.”
Olynna glared at him with a hatred so fierce that it had to be impious. But she said nothing more, only turned and stormed away with Sister Gretyl hurrying behind. I was torn between disappointment and gratitude as I watched her go. For better or for worse, there was nothing standing between me and the Old Garden now.
Illias smiled gratefully at Bryndine. “Thank you for the support, Captain.” His eyes fell on me, and it looked as though he might say something, but instead he turned towards the Garden. “Come—we have work to do.”
Stepping into the Old Garden for the first time in five years, I could not help but feel I was dreaming. And my dreams of the Old Garden never ended well.
The entry dome was just as I remembered it—enormous, empty, and echoing. Each footstep against the polished marble floor reverberated endlessly. A mosaic of religious imagery spanned the curve of the dome above. It was not perfectly preserved—tiles were missing here and there, and in some places large swaths of stone were bare—but what remained was impressive. The scenes told the story of creation: the Mother and the Father before the Divide, the Dragon and the Wyddin, the birth of mankind.
To the north and south stood large oaken doors leading into the halls that encircled the courtyard, halls filled with offices and dormitories for the Children who had once lived and worked in the Old Garden. Those doors were roped off—the structure had not been in active use for decades, not since Syrid’s grandfather King Eryk had declared it an historical site sixty years before. The Eldest of the Children dwelled in the nearby Royal Garden now, built over the ruins of the Archives by King Eryk’s command.