Barb Hendee - Thief of Lives

And now the auspices of the guild had come to Chane's own homeland.

Those distant libraries and archives the size of castles overwhelmed his imagination. Someday he would see them with his own eyes, feel their parchments beneath his fingertips, read strange tongues that spoke of forgotten days and lost mysteries, and quench his mind on centuries of knowledge gathered by the learned. How many new insights into his conjury might he find in such vast repositories? And what might be known of the Noble Dead, with some detail of knowledge that might finally free him from Toret's domination? There was now a guild here, and perhaps that would be enough to uncover a key to his freedom.

The piecemeal vision still lingered as he absently rounded a street corner onto an intersecting cobble road. A short distance ahead was an open archway in the city's middle wall. Two ring-mailed Strazhy-shlyahketne, the city's official guards, stood relaxed but attentive to either side of the massive granite portal. They gave him little more than a passing glance.

Chane's destination was only a short distance inside the ring wall. When he reached it, he paused to take in the sight illuminated by the street lanterns' dim yellow light. His vision of grand, scholarly enclaves faded like smoke in the night breeze.

City space was scarce and, from all whispered suspicions, the city council had decided it best not to house these highly valued but "foreign" emissaries too close to the royal grounds. What stood in front of Chane as the new Belaskian branch of the Guild of Sagecraft was an old, decommissioned barracks.

In years past, the guard outgrew these accommodations, and two new barracks were constructed-one near the outer ring wall and one near the inner. The old building stood empty for over a year, until the sages arrived. Weathered and aged, it was reasonably well kept and rose to two stories of sound timbers attached directly to the city wall's inner side. But as much as it had been adequate for a barracks, it was not what the sages had hoped for. There simply wasn't enough space inside to house their necessary wares, let alone build a library.

Chane lifted the front door's latch and entered, his welcome established months ago. He turned left down the narrow central passage toward where the Strazhy sergeant's quarters were once located. Apprentices and hired scribes trundled up and down the stairs with careful armfuls of scrolls, sheaves, tablets, books, and the occasional oddity he could not immediately identify. A few nodded a greeting as they passed.

The old sergeant's front chamber, once used as an impromptu courtroom for petty crimes and civil disputes, was transformed into a study area with tables, chairs, scribe desks, and shelves. Around the room were a few curious glass lamps filled with glowing light that never flickered.

Two sages in clean gray robes-one of medium size, the other slight and small-sat together at the rear table carefully considering a leather-bound box. But they were also waiting for him, and both looked up when he entered. The taller of the two was the old domin, or grandmaster sage, Tilswith.

"Right… right time," he said in broken speech with a warm smile.

Though he was well into his sixties, Tilswith's vivid green eyes were keen of sight, though occasionally he used a reading glass to magnify small script. His gray hair possessed a hint of its once coal-colored shade, and he wore it cropped short with a close-trimmed beard to match. Though lined, his narrow face and long hands were not harshly wrinkled.

"Come… sit," Tilswith said with a welcoming wave of his hand. "We may have… new clue to…"

The domin faltered and, with great frustration, hastily motioned to his colleague, who leaned close to whisper in his ear. Though he was engaging and wise, the elder man's command of local languages was not all it should be for the head of such an establishment. Tilswith tapped fingertips to forehead, letting out a grunt of frustration as if the term that escaped him were now obvious.

"Yes, yes-Great War… the Forgotten." He sighed deeply. "Pardon… days I think I never learn speak your language."

Tilswith's smaller companion shifted out of her stool to offer it up. Slightly built and barely reaching Chane's collarbone, Wynn Hygeorht was twenty years old at best, yet already Tilswith's primary apprentice. Light brown hair hung in a neat braid down her back. Her olive-toned face was round and unpainted, adorned only by small features and a pair of rich brown eyes. As assistant to Tilswith, and an initiate in the Order of Cathologers, Wynn specialized in the knowledge of knowledge itself: the preservation, organization, and coordination of libraries great and small, and always knowing where to find the last forgotten corner note that only one person in a decade might care to retrieve. She could read, write, and speak a half dozen languages, including Belaskian. Though she seldom spoke without something specific to say, it was always engaging to converse with her. After nights of Sapphire's inane chatter, the fewest words spoken by Wynn were soothing to Chane's ears.

He found true contentment during only three types of moments in his existence-on the hunt, delving some new depth of conjury, or engaged with Tilswith and Wynn. Any other moment was little more than the lingering of servitude.

He looked down at the table and this new object of interest.

"Would you care for tea?" Wynn asked in her soft tone.

"No, I am fine. How old is this parchment?"

Tonight he was especially anxious to push the world aside. He sat on the stool, Wynn just behind him, and watched as Tilswith opened the elongated leather-bound box.

From within, the sage removed a scroll. The sheath, as well as the spindles' yellow wood, looked new, and Chane wondered what could possibly be contained in this recent acquisition. From Tilswith's solemn state of excitement, it was obviously nothing he had brought with him on the initial journey to Bela.

The domin slipped the sheath off and unrolled the scroll on the table, leaning forward to inspect the contents.

"Is copy-or… original found after we leave and is stored safe in home guild in Calm Seatt. No date on original. After copy, one copy sent us, me to judge… judge…"

"Authenticity," Wynn supplied.

"Authenticity?" Tilswith glanced over his shoulder, uncertain of his pronunciation until Wynn nodded. "Great War my field. Think this part"-he pointed to the current section displayed-"write by soldier before or after battle."

Chane blinked. "Highly unlikely. Even the highest-quality parchment would not survive well for half a millennium, and I doubt such was given to soldiers in the field. If that is the true nature of the original document."

Tilswith listened carefully. It took a moment for him to comprehend Chane's speech, and then he nodded agreement.

"From notes, and marks here"-he pointed to a strange row of dots spaced between the foreign characters-"original not whole but better… better than other old texts. Look."

Tilswith slowly rolled the scroll, pointing again and again at repeated, irregularly placed rows of dots between and within passages of texts.

"Dots where scribe find no text can read. Copy match mark place, size, and more from original. Some text lost, but much survive… more than hope for this old. Puzzle how could be."

"Can you read this tongue?" Wynn asked over Chane's shoulder.

"No," he answered. The marks appeared to be tiny pictures instead of letters, all arranged in rows as writing. He'd seen few such pictographic texts during his studies, and they had all been attributed to the same source. "It looks like some form of ancient Suman?"

"Good!" Tilswith nodded and pointed to a brief one-line passage of two characters. "This name of woman. Rest may be life in soldier camp… and what eat for dinner." His finger moved down to the first full section, but he read it from right to left. "Interest… writer common soldier write letter to home."