Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

The first few hours were no less bumpy than the road. It had been so long since I’d seen script like this, it almost seemed like a language I had no familiarity with at all. I stumbled, and backtracked, and generally stared at the scribbled words, befuddled.

I was beginning to despair of ever making sense of the words on the page. But very slowly, with each passing mile and hour, it began to come back to me. Slowly. When we stopped at midday, I was shaking, sweaty from being confined in the stuffy wagon, frustrated, and glad when Braylar bid me lock it all up and take a small break.

Vendurro tried to initiate some conversation, but after offering only a few stilted replies, and realizing I was directing my irritation his way for no good reason, I excused myself and took a walk through an untilled field.

When we finally started forward again, I took my spot, a little more relaxed and grounded than I had been. Wine helped. Though it was closing in on vinegar.

Throughout the afternoon, things haltingly started to come easier, as I immersed myself in the source material fully without worrying overmuch about how precise of a translation it was, or how long it seemed to be taking to regain any fluency in the language. As the day wore on, I felt myself becoming engrossed. Not in the material itself, which proved to be a lay subsidy roll in the first instance (as dusty a topic as the scroll itself) and the first three codices in a twelve-part series dealing with early religious and secular Anjurian law that outlined the intersection but more often the tensions and gulfs, going into voluminous detail about defining the castes and how they ought to be represented in local courts, rights of inheritance, and other equally riveting analysis of ancient jurisprudence. But engrossed in the process itself, the puzzling it out.

When the wagon stopped abruptly, I’d almost forgotten I was actually riding in one, or that we had a very unpleasant destination before us. Until Braylar pulled the flap aside and called back, “You’ve spilled enough ink for the day, archivist. Get your wits about you.” He looked at the stains on my fingers and then my face, where I must have touched myself while penning. “You have spilled more than enough, in fact. I gave you a directive not to sully the pages. Clearly I should have told you to protect yourself from them as well.”

I nearly touched my face again where he was staring and stopped myself. “Are we at the lodge?”

“Yes, Arki. Henlester is just outside. He invited your personally to sup with him and discuss ink preferences.”

The flap fell closed again. For a moment, I couldn’t tell what felt worse-stopping when I felt as if I was finally building some momentum, or stopping because we might actually be near a site where more blood was going to stain the grass and leaves.

I stowed my gear and clambered down from the wagon, joints aching, muscles sore from assuming the same bent posture for so long. No sooner were my feet on the ground than the Syldoon pushed the wagon into the deeper brush and trees on one side of the road. Working quickly and methodically, they had it covered so well that you would have had to pass within arm’s length or bump your shin on it before even noticing the wagon was there. When it came to matters of subterfuge, they really did have unparalleled skills.

The woods had closed in considerably, furry ferns bent low, gnarled armored oaks with their purple-black serrated leaves crowding together, hulking thick-trunked elms ringed in reddish-orange moss peculiar to this region, hoary larch, the towering and narrow spear pines jutting up so high they seemed intent on piercing the clouds. Even though we were still on a road, of sorts, it was narrow, and the foliage was dense and almost obtrusive, the tall trees blocking out most of the sun, the shrubs and bushes seeming to lock limbs in an effort to prevent anyone from even thinking of leaving the open path.

Braylar walked my slow but trusty and generally benign horse over to me as the others finished climbing back into their saddles. They had the horses that had been pulling the wagon drawn up behind them.

The captain handed me the reins. “Climb aboard, scribe. This boat won’t steer itself.”

I looked at my horse and hesitated. “I could stay with the wagon. To watch over it, that is. Alert you if anyone investigates. Make sure no one breaks into-”

“Your concern for my property, while commendable, in unwarranted. Two of my men remain behind. The saddle, Arki.”

I reluctantly hoisted myself up, threw my leg over, wincing as sensitive sores that hadn’t had any time to heal were immediately being chafed raw again. But really, it wasn’t the discomfort or the anxiety about the woods that gave me pause, it was leaving the translation now that I finally had a chance to dig into it.

All the Syldoon were on horseback, and the Memoridons were as well. Soffjian rode up to Braylar, posture as rigid and perfect as his own.

“Sister,” he said, leaving it at that.

“Brother,” she replied, but not content to stop there. “How are you feeling today? Less burdened, I hope?”

“Do you now?”

“Not personally, of course. Personally, I prefer you anguished. Tormented even. Which you obviously manage surprisingly well without any help from me. But I have a professional interest in you now.” Soffjian looked down at Bloodsounder, which Braylar pointedly ignored.

“Ever the professional.”

“Skeelana seemed to think there was quite a bit of residual… matter spattered inside you. Quite the cleanup job, from the sounds of it. So, do you feel sufficiently scoured now? Ready again to proceed recklessly into the wild for no good reason?”

Braylar ignored her and Soffjian turned to the trees and rolling hills, as if she could see Henlester somewhere out there in the hidden distance. “I’m curious, though. Are you more in a rush to be overcome by stolen memories again, or to risk the wrath of the Emperor, who did not expressly give you leave to go priest hunting in the wilderness?”

“The Emperor did not expressly deny it, either. He issued a command to return, and we will do so, never fear.”

Soffjian gave him a long look that seemed blank and composed but I suspected masked a good many broiling emotions. “The command is yours, for the moment, Captain. But I must go on record as-”

“Objection duly noted, duly considered, and duly rejected and forgotten. Anything else, Memoridon, or are you done meddling? For the moment, of course.”

She smiled in return and pointed toward the woods. “Lead on, oh puissant warrior. By all means.”

He didn’t respond and started riding into the trees, though whether or not on some path remained to be seen. Mulldoos, Hewspear, and Vendurro followed immediately after, and the rest of the Syldoon filed in behind. I hesitated, and so missed my chance to ride amongst the captain and his lieutenants, but I wasn’t looking forward to riding next to any of the other Syldoon, who tolerated me only slightly better than they did the Memoridons in the company. So that left me to ride next to the unwelcome women.

Soffjian ignored me, eyes still tracking her brother, again with the disquieting blank expression, and she moved ahead as Skeelana fell in alongside me. She waited until Soffjian had put a little distance between us, then leaned closer to me. “So. You’ve been sequestered away.”

There was no rise at the end to indicate it being an actual question, but it clearly hung there like one, or at least an invitation for me to elaborate. “I was feeling a bit off. That rabbit we had didn’t really agree with my stomach. Most wild game doesn’t. How are you doing? Better I hope?” I suddenly felt guilty that I’d been so absorbed with translating I hadn’t stopped to ask her earlier in the day.