Rina and I had taken to rising early in hopes of making quicker progress. Each night I laid my head down to sleep with thoughts full of stories—told to us all by firelight, or in the dark by Eris to me alone. Each morning I wrestled with the druids’ philosophy, and a combat it surely was.
The Scriptures of Saints were a unity; if Saints conflicted, it was by omission, rather than by disavowal. They built one upon the other, building a dogma of virtue which could guide and shape, an apparatus of morality as spring-quick and seamless as any Teague mechanism.
There were no names in the book we read together. Rina said there was no sole author to the Scrolls, and I could almost believe this, so discordant seemed the composition. One thought seemed to contradict another, and at times a thought contained its contradiction within the same line.
One such idea had its fangs in me even as I entered the Hall of Whispers, making haste on a business that seemed very far from the high-flung work of philosophy.
Shivex nac-safi tolex.
The Hall of Whispers was empty and cold. If others had been here this early in the day, they had been banished; there was no illumination to be found save for the wan flickering of candles at the very farthest end of the space.I nearly tripped upon the protruding edge of a rush-mat in the dark, and my heart skipped a beat at the sudden lurch.
Light bloomed to either side—the spent stumps of candles lining a walkway. Tiny flickers of scarlet sparked at the wicks a pace ahead, bringing illumination. I froze in place.
“Don’t–”
“I thought you might like the light.” Grannine blocked my path. She knelt by a candle only a handsbreadth ahead, Her expression was of perfect innocence. Her hair fell in a wave of ruddy scarlet, sparks crawling through the strands like falling snow. I took another hesitant step forward, and She rose to Her full height, drawn very close.
“We don’t know who’s waiting.” In deference to the morning chill, I had chosen mantle over shawl today; it clung warm and heavy around me, held on one shoulder by a cloak-pin of simple twigs, and fell almost to my feet. “Please.”
“If you insist,” She said, and set Her hands on my shoulders. “I’m with you.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll be all right.” I took a long, slow breath. When I opened my eyes again, She was gone, and a long path through the dark was laid out before me.
My heart had quickened even before I saw Elder Gafed stood at the edge of the pool of light. Her face was cold and furious, or perhaps simply passionless. Beside her was Elder Tabiir, a man thin and lethargic in his movements, aged and ageless face with a head of white hair. He stood nearer to the flickering candles, hands folded in the sleeves of his long robe. Around his neck was a cord from which hung an arc of pallid, pointed porcupine quills, their ends set in silver.
Opposite Tabiir-torex stood a girl of scarcely more than ten or twelve, dressed in druid clothes. I recalled her face from our journey west—one of the children of Caer Lunan. Faith Arquet stood like a warding general at her side. I knew she had seen me long before she gave any hint of acknowledgement—not until Tabiir-torex turned away from her did she nod in my direction.
“Suuna’astrea Mariead-dan,” Tabiir inclined his head. He had a dry voice like the rustle of cloth over stone—and he spoke the Church tongue with startling facility. “I thank you for joining us.”
Gafed only bowed; or rather, she gave the faintest intimation of a bow, a scant inclination of her upper body.
“Ve khas,” she murmured, a comment not quite addressed to me. It had become her favorite greeting. At last.
“My Lady,” Faith said, without taking her eyes off Elder Gafed. She rubbed the girl’s shoulder. “Say good morning to the Lady, dear.”
“She uses your title like a weapon.” Grannine leant forward at my side, wrapping one long arm around my left shoulder. I saw Her eyes gleaming scarlet in the dark.
I wish she wouldn’t. Our best hope here is acceptance; we do not gain that by clinging to our traditions.
“See, oughtn’t it be the recipient who decides what and when they’ll accept?”
You’ve been learning too much philosophy.
“I can hardly help what I overhear.”
“Good morning,” the girl said. She then bobbed a very serviceable little curtsey, gesturing with one hand to indicate a skirt when the druid trousers did not serve her. “Hope Spencer, an’ it please you, M’Lady.”
Faith and Hope. Not for the first time, I considered whether a druid’s name might also have meanings beyond the personal signifier. The thought was expansive, sprawling, and threatened to overthrow my focus if not neglected. I set it aside.
“Gafed-torex, Tabiir-torex. Faith, Hope.” I bowed to each of them in turn. Practice had made the druids’ armless bow familiar to me; a quick dip of the torso. I tried to keep an amiable expression. “No need for titles, please.”
“Tullel iv, suuna’strea,” Elder Tabiir said. “This is no great matter.”
A faint tightening of the skin around Elder Gafed’s mouth suggested some disagreement on this point.
“Great or small, I am here. Forgive me if I am late,” I added, looking at Elder Gafed. “Acrurina-al-baran and I woke early to begin the Aratus Shivex.” I slipped in the teacher’s suffix as another bit of emphasis, and was rewarded with the faintest look of irritation from Elder Gafed.
“An omen of the day,” Elder Tabiir smiled.
“I had hoped not,” I said lightly. He did not laugh. Again I saw the black script of Molok in my mind’s eye.
Shivex nac-safi tolex.
Death is the oldest friend.
I cleared my throat. “Rina-baran will be here soon.” Loathe to leave her copy of the Scrolls unguarded, and yet more so to appear before an Elder with it on her person, Rina had begged time to conceal the text safely. I tried not to resent this delay on her part.
“Ve berem,” Gafed said. I felt Grannine’s fingers enfold my heart, and the Elder’s words turned sidelong, squeezed themselves into shapes I understood. “We continue. If Speaker Acrurina will not be here, she is not here.”
“…wanted at least you here, m’Lady,” Faith said to me, cutting into the silence after Gafed spoke. For a terrifying instant, it was my own language that was alien to me. “I wasn’t sure if–”
“Molok, natecsonin-dae,” Gafed said sharply. Faith stopped, and then her face assembled itself into the most courteous, murderous smile I had ever seen.
“Ix velos, Gafed-torex,” Faith said politely, deliberately laboring to shape each word. She inclined her head again. “Khas ix oltag ux, oltag molok.” Her upper lip twitched. “Oltag vec-suuna’strea aj.” She looked back to me. “My Lady. Hope’s put herself in a bit of trouble, and we’re discussing–”
“I didn’t mean to,” Hope spoke up now in self-defense. She a head shorter than Faith, and had a quick, desperate manner to her that was difficult to watch. “I was going to put it back! I didn’t–”
“Hope, dear, let–”
“Let her speak,” Tabiir said. At the sound of his voice, Hope flinched and withdrew, almost clinging behind Faith. His expression softened, and he spoke almost directly to Hope, as though we were not there. “It is her action that brings us here. She may speak if she wishes.”
He produced a small bundle from within his robe. He cradled it carefully, as though precious, and with one hand flicked the wrapping loose to reveal jewels and metalwork. “For this we called to you.”
In a flicker of fire, Grannine drew close to inspect the bauble. For an instant I saw it in a dizzying double-vision, at once near and far. A band of inscribed silver with a narrow gap at one end, far too large to be a ring, too narrow to be a necklace. The inner face was etched with minute script in the druids’ tongue, and the outer face bore a deep, square-sided central channel.
Near one edge of the band, the face of the channel was warped, the curve deformed. The channel was empty there and for two-thirds of the arc of the remainder. Only at the far end was the original design visible—an inlay of the mottled, greenish-blue druidstone so flawless that I could hardly discern a seam between stone and silver.
The stone had broken from its inlay. Its fragments were arranged around the bracelet haphazardly, and for an instant the cloud of pallid blue seemed arranged like a swarm of watchful eyes. The candlelight flickered, and the illusion was gone.
“We have many precious things left to us here.” Tabiir shifted his hand, evoking another glitter of light over the broken stone. “Many that we cannot create again. This is one such.”
I became aware that he was watching me as though expectant. I evidently failed to produce what it was that he sought, for he clicked his tongue. “You do not understand.”
“Perhaps I do not.”
“This was a gift to her child from Gela-dii, mother of Eacolim-tan. It came to Gela-dii as a gift from her father, and it was given to her grandfather when he became a Speaker in his youth. It was forged in Bor which is dead, five hundred years ago.” Tabiir-torex said all of these things in the same dry tone. “There are two harms which must be understood. The child took this without permission from the dwelling of Eacolim-tan. This alone we cannot allow. But to break it…” He looked down at the band. “Our makers are skilled, and they will do what they can, but we cannot join the stone once again. That art is lost.”
“I didn’t–”
“Hush, child,” Faith said, again. Tabiir looked at her strangely, but this time he did not protest. Elder Gafed made a sound of disdain.
Faith glanced at me. Unsure of what to say, I bowed, my mind racing. I ignored Elder Gafed.
“Tabiir-torex,” I said. “What must we do to make this right?”
“It cannot be made right.” Tabiir-torex frowned. “It can only be learned and mended. For this I have called you.”
“Then for this I have come.” It was a thing Saric might have said. In my own voice I heard the accent of another language; the cadence of a druid. A flash of baseless apprehension flashed through me. I too have been indelibly marked.
“The child has broken something sacred to us,” he said.
“She has destroyed part of our inheritance,” Elder Gafed snapped. “You will ensure there is not a second loss.”
I glanced at Hope. Her eyes were wide, frightened. Why call me? Is he unwilling to punish one of our people?
“A father’s punishment may bring wisdom,” I said. Nearly a perfect quotation from the Gospel of Saint Blake. It did not seem to satisfy; Gafed’s lip curled.
“M’lady…Hope’s parents were at the barracks.”
The barracks. Some of the fiercest fighting in the rebellion of Caer Lunan. Hope was silent.
“She has no mother to speak for her, my Lady,” Faith said, almost reprovingly. “I thought you might defend her.”
In her mother’s stead. Hope would not meet my eyes. She stared at the floor, her fingers tying into knots. “This was told to me,” Tabiir-torex inclined his head to Faith. “With no mother, I called for Faith-dan, and Faith-dan called for you.”
My temper had been rising again. Faith’s words quenched it, turned the fire in my belly to a cold, familiar, empty ache.
“At the least she still has me to rely upon, Tabiir-torex.” I turned to face the Elders, lifting my chin. “Whatever punishment she ought to have, I will accompany her.”
I uttered this promise with no real thought of the consequences. Tabiir’s bemused frown was not the response I had anticipated.
“You may share this if you wish. You agree then, that there must be consequence?”
“Of…course,” I glanced at Faith. She offered a very small shrug. “We are gim-alarmecanin, are we not? Your ways are ours.”
“Glet,” Tabiir said. Good. He smiled, and I saw relief in his expression, in the softening of his pale green eyes.
Now I think I understand. The insight surprised me. Loathe to punish an orphaned child without our blessing. We must agree over her, or risk a schism. She is not of the druids, nor is she wholly ours.
This last thought felt foreign, even as it followed the next. If she does not belong to us, or to the druids…to whom does she belong?
“Now you’re definitely starting to sound like a druid,” Grannine said impishly, Her voice gliding around our little circle.
These morning lessons with Rina. I’m hardly awake when we start. I cleared my throat.
“What consequence would you give a child of Raven Lake?”
“Consequence,” Tabiir repeated the word curiously.
“Our ways are yours now,” Gafed-torex said. Whatever vitriol she yet nursed, it had not faded; I saw flashes of it in the movements of her head, her shoulders. “You will not harm the child in the barbaric ways of the Churchborn.”
Grannine’s voice filled my mouth again in quick retort, sharp rejection in my voice.
“Gafed-Elder, We would not.”
“Tabiir-torex,” Faith said, with a calming, ingratiating tone. “You came to me with this news. We’d be happy to accept your ruling. How can…how can Hope learn from this?”
“Faith-dan, you ask well,” Tabiir said. When he smiled, it seemed kindly in his eyes, and tight about the mouth like a rictus. He looked down again at the silver artifact in his hand, and directed his thought once again to Hope, who shrank back. “She will meditate the object until she understands what has been lost.”
He cast another curious green glance at me. “How is it you will share this lesson with her, suuna’astrea?”
“I have spent my mornings in meditation of late. I could…sit with her, and help to learn?” I resented the questioning sound in my own voice. “We could begin now, if you wish, Tabiir-torex.”
“I am satisfied. Gafed-koltorex?”
“Hm!” Gafed made a quick gesture. She inclined her head to Tabiir, and more fractionally, to me, and stepped away without further fanfare on the dark path out of the cavern.
“Faith-dan,” Tabiir-torex said, fixing his eyes on her. “You are blameless here. You will go. These two must meditate alone; if you find Rina-al, tell her what has passed.”
“M’Lady?” Faith nodded to Tabiir, but she looked to me.
“It’s all right. I’ll find you after.”
“Do,” she said. She put an arm around Hope’s shoulders again, looked down. “The Lady is going to stay with you a while now, Hope. All right?” The girl nodded, but did not speak. Faith pursed her lips as though to say more, but instead she pulled the girl to her for a close hug, mussed her brown hair. “If you need something, m’Lady–”
“We’ll be fine.” With Gafed gone, my pulse was beginning to subside. “Spending my morning in prayer is not unfamiliar to me, you know.”
Faith’s lips twitched in a smile. She clapped my shoulder, added a cursory bow of her head to Tabiir.
“Thanks, Elder. We must do this again sometime.”
“Faith-dan. Bagam.” Tabiir-torex bowed to her. Faith squeezed my shoulder and followed Elder Gafed into the dark.
We four were left alone. Three. Hope, Tabiir, Grannine, and myself.
“It’s all right,” I said to Hope. The poor child now looked petrified, stern and stiff with the bravery of the fearful. She flinched back from my offered hand, and I pulled it back. What else can I say? “I’m here. We’ll do this together. Tabiir-torex. How do we begin?”
“Tollel iv,” he said, and sank carefully, a little stiffly, to one knee. He made a downward, patting gesture to Hope, who remained standing.
“Please, sit,” I told her as kindly as I could. She did not move. I followed suit, knelt on the rush mats, resting my hands on my knees, and hesitantly, she followed my example. She held her distance from both Tabiir and I, as if we might lunge out after her.
Carefully, Tabiir set the broken piece of jewelry upon the floor, atop its dark cloth. It twinkled in the candlelight, and the faces of its fracture looked like glass.
“This is not silver,” he said, and he touched the shining metal band where it had been dented. “It is eprax, silver-gold. This metal is precious to us, and we no longer have the secret of its making.” He looked to Hope. “This was left to Eacolim-dan by his mother, who is dead. What silver has your mother left you?”
It took Hope some time to reply. I held my tongue, loathe to speak and frighten her again into silence.
“None,” she said, at last. “We d-didn’t have…”
Her voice wavered. Tabiir looked nearly stricken by this, but carried on.
“Still. This is a memory to Eacolim-dan of his mother. Of his family, and the place where he belongs. The memory survives…but this does not. The raka, the stone, is broken, and the next one to hold this stone will never see it as it was made. Do you understand?”
Hope nodded. She looked almost on the verge of tears. Tabiir-torex relented. He even smiled, that tight, gelid smile, and it had more warmth in it now. “Glet. If you wish to offer apologies to this artwork, you may. If you wish to speak, you may. But you will sit in contemplation,” he reached out and took one of the candles, a taller, slower-burning one. “Until this is half as high.” He held his finger up, marked halfway with the edge of a nail. “You are a gift to us, Hope-dae. We will greet you and suuna’astrea Mariead-dan when you return. Suuna’astrea, I will tell Rina-baran that your lesson must wait.” His eyes twinkled. He bowed his head to her, and to me, and to me again, before rising to his feet.
He left us, and we sat alone in the dark, listening to the whisper of his retreating footsteps. Candlelight seemed to penetrate only a little way into the emptiness of the Hall of Whispers.
“Hope,” I said, carefully, and unfastened the pin at my shoulder. “It’s cold. Would you like my shawl?” I drew it off and offered it to her, leaving only the deerskin shift I wore. Grannine’s hands closed around my waist, and the chill in the sonel-akad fled from my skin.
Hesitantly, the girl took the garment, wrapping it around herself, hunching down into a bundle on the floor.
Silence steeped around us, candles guttering now and again as unseen currents coiled this way and that through the hall. I tried to think of something to say. But what would suffice? Heartbeats came one after another, long, too long, and I was not the first to break the still air between us.
Hope stirred. She spoke hesitantly, as though impelled by some fiendish curiosity, but with a withdrawn, preemptive air of fear.
“Anat says you’re a witch,” she said. I blinked.
“Oh.”
*
BLANK SLATE 
2 thoughts on “3.2.0 – Fragment ”