CHAPTER 20

The merchant’s camp surrounded the well. Firelight threw warped, elongated shadows of men onto the sand, stretching to join with those of long-legged kapo, their burdens still strapped to their narrow backs. Even the steam rising from the pot the cook carried to his fellows cast a shadow.

Sa-Mica turned away and led the way back down the road. In the distance the dune that they’d climbed over was a pale crescent. Nobody could stop the sands shifting in the winds, but the road was straight so wherever dunes covered it a person only had to walk onwards and they would easily find it again on the other side.

“We aren’t going to join them?” Sa-Gest asked.

“They would not rest well knowing a tainted was close by,” Sa-Mica replied.

“What about refilling our flasks?”

“It can wait until morning.”

“Mine’s empty.”

“You must drink more slowly.”

“I would have if I’d known, but…”

Ignoring him, Sa-Mica turned off the road and climbed a dune. Rielle followed. Sa-Gest paused, then hurried after them. The scarred priest reached the top of the dune and paused to look around. Starlight bathed the desert in a deep, cool blue. It softened the edges of everything, turning the gritty texture of the dunes into smooth sculptures. Sa-Mica waited until Sa-Gest caught up, panting, then started down the other side. Rielle felt soft sand change to hard ground as they reached the bottom.

“We will sleep here tonight,” Sa-Mica said.

He shrugged off his pack. Pain lanced through Rielle’s shoulders as she tried to do the same. Holding still until it eased, she considered how else she might remove it. Sitting down, she felt the weight lift off her shoulders as the base of the pack met the ground. With a wriggle she was able to extract her shoulders from the straps. After stretching and rubbing the stiffness out, she pulled the sleeping mat free and spread it over the ground a few steps away from Sa-Mica’s.

They had been walking for three days now. Each night they had camped at a well, sleeping on mats with nothing but their clothing between them and the stars. As soon as the sun rose they ate a quick meal then set off again. Sa-Mica stopped only to eat and they did not halt when the sun set. The day’s trek ended when they reached whichever well Sa-Mica chose to rest at – which could be soon after sunset or closer to midnight.

The rope sandals had chafed Rielle’s feet until they bled, so she’d walked barefoot on the hot sand. The heavy chain about her neck rubbed, too, and the weight of it gave her headaches, but she could do nothing about that. Her scarf kept the sun off most of her face, but wherever her skin was exposed – hands, feet and above the neckline of her tunic – it burned.

Sa-Mica approached and opened her pack. Though they each carried their own sleeping mat and water, the rest of their supplies were divided among them. Rielle had noted that Sa-Mica removed food from her and Sa-Gest’s pack more than his own. Perhaps he had other items stowed in his. Perhaps he figured they should use up the food in her pack first, so she was less tempted to run away.

She touched the chain at her throat. Thanks to her brother’s stories and advice, she knew better than to venture into the desert with less than a day’s water. How would she get away from the priests, anyway? They took it in turns to watch her through the night. Even if Sa-Gest fell asleep during his watch, she doubted she’d be awake to notice. When she lay down she slipped into an exhausted slumber, only broken by the rising sun.

Perhaps they feared she’d use magic to get away, but what chance had she, ignorant and unskilled, against two priests? No chance at all.

Yet despite the impossibility of escape, contemplating it drew her out of the sadness and despair she’d felt since her capture. She knew she could not survive in the desert, but it did not go on for ever. Her family’s maps showed that there was a long line of mountains on the other side of the sands. She was being taken to a place called the Mountain Temple, not the Desert Temple. Perhaps, if she was lucky, Sa-Gest would fall asleep on his watch and she’d slip away before either priest noticed.

Would I use magic if I had to?

Her soul was already tainted. What would it matter if it became more tainted? The Angels would tear it asunder when she died anyway.

I have nothing left to lose but the last years of my life. This thought had occurred to her a few days ago, and it had returned many times since. She had lost her family, her lover, her future and the regard of the Angels. Even if she managed to run away, she would still feel the terrible weight of guilt. Part of her wanted to be punished, if that would somehow make things right. And I still love the Angels and don’t want to steal what’s rightly theirs.

Interrupting her thoughts, Sa-Mica handed her a lump of stale bread, a stick of dried meat and a handful of salted beans.

“Tomorrow night’s fare will be fresher,” he promised as he gave the same to Sa-Gest, with an added bundle of sweet preserved fruit.

Rielle’s heart leapt. Did that mean they were nearing the end of the desert? She did not dare ask.

With such a dry meal, she was glad to have saved half of her water. After she had eaten she still had a quarter of her flask left. As she went to slip it back into the outer pocket of her pack, Sa-Mica extended a hand to her.

“Give it to me.”

She obeyed. He handed the flask to Sa-Gest, who immediately guzzled the rest. As she received it back she wiped the mouth of it thoroughly on her skirt. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

On the first night she had been all too conscious of him watching her. Every time she’d glanced his way he’d smirked at her, so she’d tried to avoid looking at him at all. The next morning the sound of voices had roused her. She realised the two priests were talking and she’d come fully awake when she heard her name spoken.

“… harmed in any way. You will find your new superior will not be as forgiving as your former ones.”

“I have never forced myself on a woman,” Sa-Gest objected.

“You prefer to trick them into compliance. Yes, I know why they were so anxious to send you with me.”

There was a pause. “They said I was better suited to a life there.”

“You may be, but you must still adhere to the rules.”

“I understand.”

“And common sense should tell you it is easier dealing with a co-operative tainted. It is clear she fears you. Keep your distance unless I tell you otherwise.”

It had not stopped Sa-Gest smirking at her when Sa-Mica’s attention was elsewhere, but he did stay away from her. Their conversation had filled her with questions and doubts, however. It suggested that Sa-Gest had caused trouble in other ways than threatening her, and some of the priests in Fyre had known of it, and perhaps tolerated it. But it also sounded as if his behaviour would not be accepted at the prison. So why, then, was Sa-Gest not dismayed to be going there? And why was life there better suited to him? The questions worried at her when there was nothing else to distract her.

Perhaps it was knowing he would be at the prison that made her think about escaping so much.

Now, as she saw Sa-Mica bring out a little lamp and his book, she felt a contradictory mix of eagerness and dread. Every night Sa-Mica had read a story from a small book. Encounters with Angels it was called. She’d never heard of it before, or the tales he’d read. While any distraction from her thoughts would be welcome, she suspected these readings were meant to remind her what her ultimate fate would be, as they were often about the tainted. Still, he had a lovely deep voice that she could have listened to for hours, and not all of the stories had grim endings.

The lamp snapped into life. Behind her, she heard Sa-Gest sigh.

“The Scribe,” Sa-Mica began.

“Many years ago lived a man named Lem. He was a writer of documents and keeper of accounts, taught by his father who had also been taught by his father and his father before him. But Lem’s hand was steadier and his skill greater than any of his ancestors’. Flattered by the compliments and praise of customers, he grew ambitious. He vowed to learn all there was to know of the art of beautiful writing. He left his father and a young wife and set out to become the greatest calligrapher in the world.

“He travelled far, and for many years. He visited many lands and met people very different from himself. Wherever he went, he sought those who had elevated the work of the pen to an art, and all shared their knowledge with him.

“He learned how to carve pens of reed and wood, of spines and feathers. He even found a jeweller who could show him how to shape pens from gold and silver, or carve them from glass or gemstone. Each of these pens produced writing of a different quality, their shape and form altering letters in a subtle and unique way, and he mastered them all.

“He learned how to make paper from grasses and leaves, from hide and hair, from mud and cloth. He even learned how to write on living skin, writing words on the arms and legs and backs of those who sought such decoration. Each of these papers was more or less receptive to the application of ink, some welcoming, some resistant, and he understood them all.

“He learned how to extract ink out of bark and sap, out of fruit and flowers, out of insects and sea creatures, out of the glands of animals and from the humble earth. He even learned to write words that disappeared and could be made to appear again in the right conditions. Each of these inks must be produced with careful measurement and process, thinned or thickened to the right consistency to match pen and paper, and he mixed them all.”

Sa-Mica paused. The desert seemed silent, though it was never completely so. The faint whistle of the wind was always present, as well as the squeak and chirrup of insects. Rielle had felt a quickening of interest at the lists of ink ingredients, but, brought back to the present, her stomach sank. Would she be allowed to draw in prison? Chalk was easy enough to come by, but paper was expensive. And what would she draw? Would she ever see anything more than the inside of her cell?

Taking a sip from his water flask, Sa-Mica cleared his throat and returned to the story.

“Twenty years passed and he longed to return to his home and family. But he knew he had not learned everything there was to know of his art, as he’d vowed. He’d heard tales told of a form of writing practised long ago, before The Restoration began. A form of writing now forbidden, for it required magic.

“If he returned home, he must admit he had not done as he had vowed or else lie. He was pious, but he was also proud. A man of his integrity did not hide behind such deceptions. He could not decide whether defeat or dishonesty was worse. Then, whether by his own design or at another’s suggestion, he struck upon the idea that he only need learn the forbidden form of writing, not actually practise it.”

Sa-Mica’s eyes rose to meet Rielle’s, then he looked away, reaching for his water flask. She watched him drink a single mouthful then carefully stopper it and put it aside.

“Returning to those places where he’d heard or read of the skill, he sought more information. He reasoned that if he could not discover anything then he could return home satisfied that he had acquired all the available knowledge of his art. But the forbidden secret was not lost and made the knowledge he had gathered in the last twenty years seem small and insignificant. For with this skill no ink would fade, no paper rot or burn, no knowledge be destroyed, no history be forgotten.”

Sa-Mica chuckled. “That, I am told by a reliable source, is an exaggeration. Most likely Lem embellished the tale to make his choice appear more noble.” He took another sip, then continued reading.

“Amazed by such an invention, he eagerly learned how it was done. Satisfied that he had achieved what he had vowed to achieve, he returned home. There he found his father weary with age and ready to hand over his business, his children grown and married. He set to work and gained great wealth by putting nearly all that he had learned to good use, and ensuring his family’s wealth by teaching his sons.

“But as time passed he grew frustrated with inks that faded and paper that yellowed. The knowledge that his skill and effort could be preserved for ever, not lost to time, was like a burr in his clothing that he could not find. Most of all he lamented the deterioration of his greatest work, a decorated copy of the Book of Angels. How could the Angels protest if magic was used to record their deeds and wisdom for the teaching of countless souls to come?

“And so he conceived a work of such beauty and grandeur that might stir an Angel’s heart to forgiveness – perhaps even gratitude. He set out to use forbidden knowledge to create a copy of the Book of Angels that would exist for ever.

“He laboured over every page, neglecting his family, business and even his appearance. He sought places where the Stain of his creation would not be noticed. When he could no longer find any, and was in danger of discovery, he left to seek a safer location. He found a remote house on a mountain where few travellers strayed. There he worked, year after year, existing on mountain herbs and magic. He forgot how to speak to others, driving away those few visitors who came his way. The more beautiful the book became, the more ugly and sick he grew.

“One day a great priest walked along that dangerous, weedy track. Dreams had sent him from his home, and along this path. When he arrived he knew why the Angels had sent him. The house existed in a great void, all the magic stolen by Lem to create his book. He prepared himself for a great battle, expecting to face a terrible sorcerer within. Instead he found a sick old man and the most beautiful Book of Angels he’d ever seen.

“So he nursed the old man back to health. As he learned what it had cost to make the book he recoiled from it. Lem heard of the dreams that had brought the priest and rejoiced, for he believed the Angels had sent him to receive the book. But the priest refused to touch it or take it away with him. Disturbed by what he had discovered, and unsure what to do about it, the priest left to consult with his peers.

“Lem tied the book to his back and followed, forcing his aged body to hurry. As he caught up with the priest the man regarded the book with fresh horror. Looking over his shoulder, Lem saw a trail of Stain stretching behind him. The book was drawing magic into itself.

“At last Lem saw the travesty he had created. Using magic one last time, he destroyed the book, casting the pages into the wind. Then he collapsed, sure that his soul would soon be torn asunder by the Angels.

“The priest, seeing that Lem was a good and pious man at heart, was saddened. He carried him back to the mountain house, then aided him in turning the place into a monastery. There Lem lived his last days teaching priests the art of writing so that they might spread the Angels’ wisdom in more humble forms. And it is said that when he died, the Angels forgave him, for his and his pupils’ work created more magic than he had stolen, and his art had inspired many thousands of souls. But only those who pass into their domain know if that is true.”

Sa-Mica lowered the book, closed his eyes and was silent. Then he blew out the lamp, closed the book and put it away.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked quietly.

Rielle blinked. He was looking at her, not Sa-Gest. She considered the story and began to shake her head, then checked herself. One question had been worrying at her since they’d left Fyre, and maybe now was the time to ask.

“How many days’ travel do we have left?”

The unscarred corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Many quarterdays, but not all of them through the desert.” He lay down on his sleeping mat. “I have not heard you praying, Rielle. You will meet an Angel one day. Ignoring them will make no difference to the outcome.”

Rielle swallowed. Her mouth was dry and Sa-Gest had finished all her water. She lay down and considered Sa-Mica’s observation. She had tried to pray while in the temple cell, but the words had stuck in her throat. It felt presumptuous to ask the Angels for anything after what she had done. Her crime was unforgivable, so what was the point of asking for mercy?

But perhaps there was some hope for her. After all, she had stolen far less magic from the Angels than Lem had, and they had forgiven him.

He had created more magic through his art. Though she had been taught that magic was generated by acts of creation she had always assumed that only the greatest of human endeavours produced any significant amount of it. Had she been making it by painting and drawing? If she was allowed to draw in prison, could she replace what she had stolen?

Whether praying was pointless or not, it would not do any harm. But as she opened her mouth the thought of Sa-Gest listening made her voice freeze in her throat. So instead she recited a simple prayer taught to children, praising the Angels and wishing her family good fortune.

That would have to do for now.