Orson Card - Enchantment

Sergei shrugged.

"I can tell you, Sergei, that unless you write these stories down, the priests will have it all their way. Only the histories they want to write, and never the true histories, either. Always twisted to make every king look like a Christian, and every defeat look like a victory. Your people will be forgotten. No one will even know there was a land called Taina. But if you write these stories, I can promise you that your land will never be forgotten, these stories will live forever."

"But I'm with the Church now, Ivan," said Sergei. "You can't ask me to oppose the writings of the priests."

"Not oppose them, Sergei. What you write won't erase a single word of their chronicles."

"Where would you get parchment?"

Ivan laughed. "I'm betrothed to the princess. Do you think I can't get parchment if I want it?"

Sergei could hardly understand what he meant. "What difference would that make? Being betrothed to the princess?"

"I can ask the king for parchment. He won't deny me."

"But... where would he get parchment?"

Ivan looked as if he couldn't comprehend the idea. Yet the words were simple, weren't they?

"He's the king," said Ivan at last.

Sergei couldn't think of what this might mean.

"He can do what he wants," said Ivan, explaining.

"We can all do what we want," said Sergei. "But killing a lamb or a kid and using the skin for parchment—you have to have something very important to write."

"Even the king?"

Now it began to dawn on Sergei what Ivan was assuming. "Oh. In your land, kings can do whatever they want. Like the emperor in Constantinople."

"We don't have kings."

"Then why don't enemies invade your land and take it away?"

Ivan laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "We have armies. We just don't have kings."

"If you have armies," said Sergei, "why are you such a bad soldier?"

Ivan looked surprised.

"Well, that can't be kept secret," said Sergei. "Everyone sees how you can hardly swing a sword. How thin you are."

"I was never in the army," said Ivan. "There are many people in my land, and only some of them become soldiers. I was... one who reads."

"And that's all?"

"And sometimes I write about what I read."

"So you copy manuscripts?"

"No, I write about them. I describe them."

"Why would you do that? If someone can't read the manuscript, how can they read your description of the manuscript?"

"It doesn't matter what I did in my land. I can't go back, can I?"

"Which is why it makes no sense for me to write these stories. You can't take them to your land, so how will they get there?"

"We'll bury them."

"Bury them?"

"Bury them very carefully. In a way that will keep them dry. So that someone can dig them up in a thousand years."

"I don't understand anything you say," said Sergei. "Burying a parchment in my land won't get it any closer to yours."

"You'd be surprised."

"Unless your land is underground," said Sergei.

Ivan laughed. "No, Sergei, I'm not from hell."

"Then from where? Heaven?"

"I'm no angel, either."

"I wondered. Your skin is so smooth. You have hands like a baby."

Ivan looked at his hands as if for the first time. "I wish I could fly, though. That would be convenient."

"You're not a saint, either?"

Ivan rolled his eyes.

Sergei realized something, having seen Ivan look at his smooth hands. "You've never even helped with a harvest, have you?"

"No. In my land we... we have... I don't know the words. But very, very few people help with the harvest."

"It must take them forever to scythe the grain."

"No, no, you see, the scythes run by themselves."

"So you're a sorcerer!"

"No, it's not sorcery at all, it's more like... when you pull a cart, you don't have to pull each wheel, you pull the whole cart and the wheels come with it. We just have better carts. They pull themselves."

Sergei had to laugh. "Now you're just lying to me to make fun of me."

"No," said Ivan. "My land is strange, though, compared to here. But another way of looking at it is, Taina is strange to me. All the years I was growing up, it never occurred to me that there might come a day when my life might depend on how I handled a broadsword or a battleaxe."

"We're alike, though," said Sergei. "I'm a terrible soldier. All I'm good for is reading and writing. And washing up."

"And I can't even do that."

"You can, though. Write all you want."

"No," said Ivan. "I make my letters wrong."

"I saw you make some letters I'd never seen before. Like this one."

With his finger, Sergei drew the letter III on the table. At once Ivan seized his hands and held them tightly.

"Don't ever make that letter again," he said.

"How could I? I don't even know how it sounds."

"Just don't use it. You shouldn't. It would change everything. It would make the record unclean. Forget it. Put it out of your mind."

Sergei nodded his understanding. So... he had inadvertently learned a powerful rune from a land of sorcery. He would have to keep this in mind. Someday he might have to use this rune. For despite Ivan's warning, Sergei was not about to forget something that was so dangerous and disturbing. In all his life, Sergei had never known how to do anything that would frighten anyone. It was an interesting feeling. He liked it.

For a while, Katerina was able to fool herself into believing that things were going well—that Ivan was earning the respect of the knights and other men by his hard work on the practice field, and that Ivan's obvious decency and concern for others, as exemplified by saving Lybed from choking, had won the hearts, or at least the patience, of the women of Taina. But gradually she realized that the absence of negative comment about Ivan did not mean there was approval or even tolerance. Instead, it meant that no one was talking to her about Ivan. It was a bad sign, not a good one. People had never shut her out before. She had assumed that she could bring him into the community; instead, he might well be dragging her out.

But what point was there in discussing this with Ivan? She couldn't think of a thing he could do more than he was already doing. She knew he didn't want to become a Christian, but he was preparing to do it. She knew he had no interest in being king, let alone soldiering, but he was working hard at it every day. If she told him her fears, it would only discourage him, and she'd have to listen to more insistence that she take him back to the enchanted place and lead him across the bridge so he could go home.

She tried to imagine what it would be like to be in his place, cut off from family, trapped in a situation not of her devising. In fact, that's precisely what had happened to her when she was chased by the bear and ensorceled into sleeping for however many months or centuries it was. But of course she had slept through it, while Ivan had to be awake through his time of estrangement. And her exile had ended with return. Would his?

It was to avoid such a conversation with him that she found herself avoiding any conversation with him apart from dinnertime, when nothing private could be discussed. But this silence between them could not go on forever, she knew; she was not surprised when, one afternoon in her father's house, she heard him in the great room, asking a slave which bedchamber was hers.

The slave was no doubt trying to guess which would cause more trouble, to tell or not to tell, and then would have to decide whether to make trouble or not, which was probably the more difficult decision. Slaves were so untrustworthy. And yet life would be impossible if you had to do all that work yourself. When would she have time to look after the people, if she had to spend her time down at the river, washing clothes, or out in the kitchen, preparing dinner?