Second Kiss (4 page)

A Great Boon to Us

A
t
the Panthemium, Xemion couldn't stop looking for Saheli, but neither she nor any of the others chosen by Lighthammer were present. After a breakfast of smoked haddock and some kind of crunchy grain that Xemion had never tasted before, Lirodello led him and a group of the others to the fairly intact remains of some majestic buildings that had once constituted the main body of the Phaer Academy.

The first thing Xemion noticed as he entered the white marble hall that housed his first class was the sunscope that had been mounted and assembled on a table. It was just like the one he had used in Ilde. Beside it, a group of Thralls had gathered over a book the size of a small window. Excited despite himself, Xemion quickly joined them, peering down over four sets of hunched shoulders to see a full-colour illustration of the hero Amphion, his sword held to the sky, a dragon exhaling steam at his side. Xemion caught his breath. Until now he had only seen this picture as a projection from the miniature version in the locket library. The details and colours in this much-larger and richer version were astonishing. Tharfen, too, leaned in to look, doing her best to keep as far as possible from Xemion. She had never seen such a picture before, even as a projection.

“Yes, the picture is wonderful, isn't it?” said Captain Sarabin as he entered the room. Sarabin was very old. His face was lined and cracked like a dry riverbed, but his eyes sparkled. Xemion tried unsuccessfully not to stare at the two copper hooks that Sarabin now used skillfully to open the cover of the book. “But even more wonderful are the words written inside, which, I assure you, by the end of this season, you will all be able to read for yourselves. And not just this one volume. I am happy to tell you that we have been blessed with the full recovery of all the Phaer Tales.”

“But how did these books survive?” Xemion asked, turning to face Sarabin.

Captain Sarabin closed the book and continued in a quiet voice. “Children always hide favoured things, and in the days after the Pathan betrayal they hid their favourite books. From a hundred pits and cupboards and buried boxes all over the land, one by one, every volume of the Phaer Tales has been recovered in the past two years, and we now have the complete collection several times over. It's a great shame that the old professors failed to bury just as many boxes of poetry and philosophy. But being Phaer, we always kept our books in public libraries, where the Pathans got at them rather quickly, I'm afraid.”

It took a while for Captain Sarabin to get the recruits to close the book and sit in the wooden seats lining the room. Some of those who now filled the chamber had probably heard versions of the Phaer Tales told in secret by old men and women before, but few of them had ever seen a book of any kind, and that picture of Amphion clearly captivated them.

Sarabin was an enormously patient man and he asked repeatedly and in a quite calm voice for the class to come to order. Finally, when they had all taken their seats, he took the book of Amphion into his arms and, using his hooks with considerable skill, placed it open on his lectern. “You have all been forbidden to learn to read,” he said in a burred voice. “You have been told that reading is mind-sickening and a pathway directly to the spellcraft. But that is wrong. You are the heirs of the greatest literary tradition in all the history of the Orb. And one of the greatest evils perpetrated by the Pathans, along with murder and slavery, is … was … stripping you of this ability. Reading is a great boon to us. There are great treasures to be had from reading … and writing. I am here to teach this. Now listen.” Quietly he began to read.

Captain Sarabin was not a born orator. There was a reedy but wispy quality to his voice that was swallowed by any slight noise in the room. Everyone listened with ever-greater attention. Sarabin continued the story a long time, up to the point where Amphion is first separated from his warrior beloved, Queen Phaeton. There he stopped and closed the book. Looking up with a smile, he said, “And the rest, as soon as you learn to read, you can finish for yourselves.”

This incited quite a lot of protest in the group, but Sarabin was unusually firm.

“Come, come, come. It will not take long. We begin with one letter and then we proceed to the next. Soon you will be reading for yourselves.”

After that, he tried to teach them the first letter of the Elphaerean alphabet,
E
, but there was too much grumbling for him to continue. Eventually he had to make an agreement with them. If they would learn the first five letters of the alphabet he would read them the conclusion of the story tomorrow. “Any questions?” he asked.

Here, Xemion nearly spoke up. From the moment Anya had begun to teach him to read she had insisted on complete secrecy. Even when he'd told the tales to the children of Sho, he pretended that he'd learned them by hearing them, not by reading them. But was that pretense still necessary? Perhaps a little longer. He would wait till noon. Nothing must interrupt the slow, steady progress toward Saheli.

As Sarabin moved on tediously to the second letter of the Elphaerean alphabet,
D
, Xemion caught a glint of Tharfen's gaze, which she quickly turned away — but not so quickly that it did not reveal the intense malice she bore him at that moment.

“And what sound do you think this letter makes?” Sarabin asked, pointing to the letter
A
.

Along with everyone else, he spoke the sound of the
A
. Suddenly, on the other side of the room, Tharfen stood up. “Excuse me,” she said loudly.

Sarabin was a little irritated to be interrupted. “What is it?”

“Is this teaching for those who already know how to read?”

Sarabin was taken aback. “You know how to read?”

“No,” she answered, looking at Xemion, unable to keep the glint of vengeful glee out of her eyes. “But he does.” With that, she pointed an accusing finger at Xemion.

Sarabin's head jolted back in surprise and a look of doubt crossed his features.

“Really?” he asked, frowning at Xemion.

Xemion was trembling. He couldn't lie. Not outright. “Yes, sir.”

Sarabin's already pale features seemed to have found new recesses of pallor to draw upon. A slight tremble entered his voice. “All the letters?”

“Yes, I know them all.” Xemion could feel the eyes of every member of the class upon him, and somehow he liked it.

“And do you know how to read them when they are put together in words?” Sarabin asked incredulously.

“Yes. In sentences, too,” Xemion replied with a smile that included everyone but the still-gloating Tharfen. “Whole paragraphs even.”

“I do hope you are not joking,” Sarabin warned, giving him a severe look.

“Of course not,” Xemion answered confidently.

“Well, here then, show us how you'd read this. It's something a little more recent than the Phaer Tales.”

There was, at that time, only one volume of recent Phaer history available:
The History of the Battle of Phaer Bay
. It only existed because Sarabin, as a witness to the battle, had taken the risk of writing it himself, an act which he paid for with the loss of both hands. The Pathans then proceeded to burn not only his book, but his home and fields as well. Fortunately, they missed the second copy of the book, which he secretly buried in the forest. It was this hand-lettered scroll that he now passed to Xemion, who unrolled it carefully and took in the cramped letters neatly handwritten upon it. Anya had always insisted that he restrain the richer textures in his voice, but there would be no need to do that now. He held everyone's attention from the moment he began:

“And all the while the fool generals held back their precious gorehorses so that by the time they attempted to use them the battle was all but over. Only then did they send the poor beasts in where they hoped their horns might be good at least for goring. But though they galloped bravely into the ranks of the Kagars, they were turned away by the silvery, burnished shields made of some kind of metal unknown to us. And soon they had roped and corralled the gorehorses and we watched in horror as they rounded up the beasts and cut off their horns. There never was such screaming from a beast. And when they let them go, the poor animals were so unbalanced by the loss of their horns they could hardly stand. They kept staggering and stooping down to the ground as they tried to make their way away from the terrible carnage.”

Xemion was completely caught up in the rhythm and emotion of the passage. His voice was soaring and swelling just as it had when he'd stood upon a stump in Ilde and held spellbound the children of Sho.

“And some of the gorehorses they slew there on the beach, and others they wrapped in reins and led off back toward the sea, for what purpose we dread to think. Only one escaped, and this poor beast now dying is the last of all the gorehorses on the Phaer Isle. And all for what? For the folly of Magick!”

When he finished, Xemion looked up to see many a rapt, sorrowful face among his fellows. Even Captain Sarabin was wiping away a tear.

“And there,” said Captain Sarabin at last, “you have the beauty of the Elphaerean language. Superbly done, young man!”

Xemion shot a triumphant glance toward Tharfen, only managing to catch her eye long enough to see her disappointment and rage that her act had not hurt him more. For a while she fingered the thin leather sling she wore about her brow and Xemion watched warily, prepared to dodge should she choose to fire a stone his way. Meanwhile, the other members of the class had lapsed into animated chatter. Thrall and Nain, Nain and Freeman. Sarabin tapped on his lectern repeatedly but lightly and without much effect. The students were at too high a pitch of excitement. Not only because they had just heard Xemion's exalted recitation, but also because very soon they would be relieved from their uncomfortable perches on the wooden chairs and sent back to the stadium, where they would get to use real swords for the first time. Xemion's excitement was also at a pitch. Soon he would see Saheli.

“Please, please.” Sarabin raised his voice, but just then there came the blowing of about ten whistles at once. The whole group cheered as one and began to evacuate their first literature class with great rapidity. Xemion finally looked at the sun outside the window and was relieved to see that it had notably edged up farther into the sky. Soon. Soon he would see her. Just then a cold piece of metal touched Xemion's shoulder — Sarabin's hook.

“Do you also write?” he asked Xemion very seriously.

“Yes, very well,” Xemion answered, sounding only the slightest bit proud of himself.

“Well then, please, young man, I must ask you to come with me.”

“But, sir,” Xemion protested, alarmed. “I can't. I have to hurry.” He made as if to leave, but his shirt was caught in one of Sarabin's hooks.

“I know, I know,” Sarabin answered, his voice suddenly firm and authoritative, “but I have something far more important for you to do.”

“But we are to be given swords today. And I have someone most important to meet at midday in the assembly.”

“You will be back by then,” Sarabin said, “but I have something of the utmost importance to reveal to you and I'm going to have to ask for your secrecy about it.”

Xemion frowned but nodded. Tharfen, with one hand tangled in the red coils of her hair, had come up behind them, listening.

“What is it?” she asked.

“He says I have to wait behind,” Xemion said angrily, turning around to face her.

“Do you also write?” Sarabin asked Tharfen.

“No, I don't.”

“Then you can go,” Sarabin stated. “But you, young man, you must come with me.”

“But …”

“You will be happy you did,” Sarabin insisted matter-of-factly. He seemed to be agitated and suddenly very determined. “And you, young lady, you can go along to the next instruction, and this fellow — what is your name?”

Xemion answered, a little sullenly.

“Xemion will come for his sword later,” Sarabin told Tharfen.

“But—” Tharfen, sensing what she had set in motion, suddenly felt a sense of regret. But it was too late for that.

“Off you go now,” Captain Sarabin said with impressive authority.

Xemion watched desperately as she walked away.

“I think you are going to be a great boon to … to our cause,” Sarabin said with barely suppressed excitement.

Dictates

N
ot
far past the crossroads where the High Street intersected with the road that led up to the old castle on the tip of Phaer Point, Sarabin led Xemion down into the coolness of a deep stone stairwell. At the bottom was a doorway with the words
Song Is My Thrall
carved into the top of the frame. They entered a dimly lit stone chamber with a domed ceiling.

“Welcome to the underdome,” Sarabin whispered.

Once Xemion's eyes adjusted to the low light, he could see that they were standing in an aisle between rows of seats. From the stage area in front of them, a periodic rattling whispery sound followed by a scratchy rustling could be heard. As he drew closer, Xemion made out three shadow beings gathered about a candlelit table on the stage. The one in the middle, the oldest person Xemion had ever seen, sat in a stone chair, withered and whispering. She was clearly a Thrall woman of some kind, her face set and hard, and she had large yellow eyes. Beside her, illuminated in the same sphere of light, an elderly grey scribe held the narrow end of a large moon-and-star-inscribed cone to the old woman's mouth. A second scribe sat across the table in front of the wide end of the cone, listening intently. The source of the scratching sound was the quill pen with which he was hurriedly writing her whispered words down onto a scroll of reed paper. And now that he was close enough, Xemion could hear the words that the cone was helping to amplify.

“And there shall be none and no one to know or
un
know the unknown …”

Yes, the old Thrall was reciting what Xemion judged to be a book of philosophy. He knew only a little about philosophy. There had been one book entitled
Of Meaning
in the locket library, which, like all the books, due to some mechanism hidden in the locket, had to be fully read before access to any further volumes was allowed. Xemion had had to labour through page after page of long, complicated sentences, all aimed at finding out the true nature of the meaning of meaning. Not even Anya Kuzelnika had been able to follow the book's convoluted questions. It was an extremely long version of one of these kinds of questions that the scribe was now transcribing.

“As to what is and is not meaning — if one word is all words then are not all words linked in one meaning?”

Holding a finger up to his lips to signal continued silence, Sarabin handed Xemion a scroll of reed paper and a pencil. Xemion looked back at him, puzzled. Sarabin made a gesture to indicate that Xemion should listen to the old woman and write down what she was saying. Xemion had half a mind to resist, because even now he could see what was coming, but it was too late for that. The sooner this was over the sooner he would see Saheli again. He settled down flat on the stage and began to transcribe. After he'd written a page full of the old woman's rattling mumblings, they began to be interrupted by small, dry coughs. Xemion heard a deep voice say, “I beg. I beg. A nap now?” Xemion couldn't see where the voice was coming from, but the old woman obligingly stopped her recitation.

The scribe who was writing looked up, annoyed, but the old woman waved her hand to signal that a rest was indeed in order. She sank back just one small iota deeper into the tall stone chair and a second set of eyelids closed down over the glassy transparent ones she had been looking through till now.

In a whisper, Sarabin introduced the two scribes. The one who had been holding the cone was Ettinender. He had long, lank yellow hair. “It's hard for him to communicate. He was a singer once but the Pathans caught him and shredded his tongue.” Ettinender nodded his head and tried to say something. But what came out was incomprehensible. This made him angry. Yarra, the other scribe, equally old, cocked his bulbous head jerkily in greeting.

“He can read! He can actually read,” Sarabin whispered with great excitement. “Now let me see how he is at writing.” He shuffled over to Xemion with the candle and used its light to peruse what Xemion had written. As he did so he read along in a muttering tone. His recitation began imperceptibly and slowly rose in volume, until by the end of the page he was almost speaking in his normal voice. Shaking his head, he looked at Xemion with longing. “How I envy you, young man. If I had but hands, I'd be down here every day, every moment. These hooks are good for much but not for that. I hope you realize how fortunate you are.”

Xemion nodded uncertainly. How long had they been down here? It was hard to tell in the dark. Surely noon was almost upon them.

“This is a miracle,” Yarra enthused, his full voice echoing off the stone overhead. “We have been so overworked for so long.” Then, seeing that he'd awakened the old woman, he spoke more quietly. “I'm so sorry, Musea. I got so very excited here. You see, this young man has shown up and he can write!”

Musea's glassy grey eye turned toward Xemion and she lifted the hook of her nose and stared straight down over the big, bony curve and fixed him at the end of her gaze. Xemion saw something in her eyes shift and focus and shift again as though a thousand telescopes were looking through one another all at once, trying to view him. Finally, he felt the connection as she found him. She smiled, then instantly looked away. That such a smile came from such a seemingly stony face took Xemion by surprise, and he couldn't help but smile back.

“He is pretty,” she croaked. She beckoned for Xemion to approach her. With the two scribes looking gleefully on, Xemion drew close to the old woman.

“Closer,” Musea commanded in her scratchy voice. “Bring your face closer to me so I can feel it.” Xemion did as requested and she placed her leathery old fingers on his cheeks and ran them over his brow, pausing there in the middle above his nose and then along his eyebrows and over his lips. As she did this she smiled and tears welled up in her eyes. “Yes, yes,” she affirmed. “I do approve.”

“I beseech a scrap of you,” said that same deep voice that had spoken out before. Xemion started. The voice seemed to come from beneath the table.

“Shhh!” the old woman said. She looked down and Xemion saw her nudge a large black shadow with her foot.

“My dog,” she said indulgently.

“He speaks?” Xemion asked, drawing even farther back.

“Only to beg.” Sarabin spoke quietly from behind him. He lowered the candle a little. A massive triangle of black dogface was suddenly illuminated in the halo of light. The animal put out its large pink tongue and began to rapidly lick the old Thrall's unclad foot. She giggled. “Stop it! He's spell crossed,” she croaked. “Aren't you, Bargest?”

Xemion could now see that the dog was oddly clad. A pink bow held a tuft of hair in place, where it hung down over one side of his head, while much of his torso was encased in a pink frilly coat with coloured buttons and tiny embroidered gorehorses. “Even, sir, if you have no scraps,” the dog pleaded, having stopped licking, “I will lick your hand if you let me.”

“Ignore him,” whispered Sarabin.

“Bargest, be quiet,” the old woman scolded. “Long ago two mages who were each other's beloveds were his first masters,” she said directly to Xemion. “He was their retriever and he did such a good job they allowed him to live in their house. But Bargest kept on, let's say, ‘retrieving' a lot of extra treats when his masters weren't looking. One mage decided that the way to correct this was to bind him with a spell to speak so that he could ask properly for the things he wanted. But you still didn't ask, did you Bargest? One day when her birthday cake was ruined the other mage bound a cross-spell against the first so he could only speak if he begged. That's why he always begs. But I love him anyway, don't I, Bargest?”

“I beseech you, do not stop,” the animal rumbled back. He began to lick the woman's foot manically as though there were a soon-to-be exhausted sweetness there. This seemed to please her deeply. She closed her eyes and turned her face up toward the domed ceiling and soon dozed off, a look of rapture on her wizened features.

“She has magic recall,” Sarabin whispered. “Early in her life she took thrall to the great classics of Elphaerean literature and read them over and over. And every day as she read, she drank from the wells of memory. As a result, she knows much of our lost Elphaerean literature by heart.”

Xemion nodded, remembering the taste of those same waters on his own tongue. The memory of Saheli drinking the waters from the other well, the well of forgetfulness, flashed at him as though from the end of a long tunnel.
Soon. Soon.

“She is the last remaining storehouse of Elphaerean literature. She has copied out fifty-seven books so far, but she is very old and no one knows how long she will last. When she first came here I am told she wrote till her wrists swelled. She wrote all day and didn't stop until she fell asleep, which, fortunately, she did with great difficulty, as she has insomnia, you see.”

Xemion nodded.

“She is too weary now to scribe at all. That is why these two gentlemen are doing the scribing for her. But she has been so wakeful of late they have had no rest. She's dictating a classic of our literature that we thought we'd lost forever … and, well, we could use you, Xemion. One more scribe would be such a relief to all of us.”

Ettinender nodded his bulbous head rapidly up and down to confirm this. “Ish dru,” Ettinender said with some difficulty.

“So … so instead of going to the reading instruction, I would come here and write down what she says?”

“Well … yes, and perhaps during some of the other more superfluous classes, as well. You seem to be already such a well-educated fellow.”

Xemion thought about it. “I will help, but right now I can almost sense the sun straight overhead. We must be very close to midday.” He looked expectantly at Sarabin.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, and I gave you my word, didn't I?”

Xemion nodded anxiously. Sarabin turned to Yarra and Ettinender. “I promised him I would get him back to the others for noon. But don't fret. I will return him to you as soon as possible.”

“You must,” Yarra said. “We are both ready to collapse with fatigue.”

Ettinender also said something with great urgency and even a little anger. He seemed to be protesting Xemion's departure, but his speech was so garbled it was impossible for Xemion to tell for sure.

“As soon as possible, I assure you,” Sarabin replied. “I have made him a promise and I must keep it.”

This definitely angered Ettinender. He stood up to protest further, but when he reached his full height he let out a little cry, went limp, and dropped to the ground. There he curled into a fetal position and began to twitch and buck and let out choked staccato sounds.

“A fit!” Sarabin ran toward him. “Grab his hands,” he shouted. “Restrain him. He'll push his own eyes out.”

Yarra somehow managed to get hold of Ettinender's flailing hands while Sarabin did his best to restrain his feet. Ettinender was turning purple. The sinews in his neck were raised and vibrating like fishing line pulled taut, his mouth was opening and shutting, and his flaps of tongue were shuddering like convulsive ribbons in the wind of his creaking groans.

“I am going to have to go and get Mr. Stilpkin.” Sarabin said, rising. “Xemion, come and hold his feet.”

“But it must be midday by now, and you said—”

“I can't help that, can I? This is a matter of life and death. Surely you are here of your own will because you want to save a life!”

Right on cue, Ettinender began to buck anew. He jerked and wriggled like a worm on a hook, all the while creaking and shrieking.

“Yarra alone cannot keep him from hurting himself,” Sarabin chided. “Your friend will come to no harm if you are late. But our oldest living scribe may lose his very life without your help.”

“But—”

“And I will arrange a time and place for the two of you to meet later,” Sarabin cut in, “I promise it. What is her name?”

“Saheli,” Xemion answered as he reluctantly took Sarabin's place holding on to Ettinender's hands. “She was one of the ones chosen by Tiri Lighthammer. I think.”

“You think?”

“I couldn't see her face. She didn't turn. That's why I need—”

“Saheli, then,” Sarabin cut him off impatiently. With that, he nodded to Yarra, said “as soon as possible,” and hurried out. The old man's struggles continued for quite a long time as his laboured breathing turned into hoarse gasping. Yarra kept urging him “stay with us, my brother, stay with us,” casting worried, tearful glances at Xemion. And for every moment of it, Xemion's feeling of panic that he would lose Saheli forever grew more and more desperate. Finally, a heavy, long-eared man arrived. He rushed forward and put a hand, which Xemion noticed was entirely green, gently on the middle of Ettinender's breast and stroked his brow. After a short while Ettinender's struggles ceased and his breathing became shallow and slow and almost imperceptible. The man with the green hand attempted to wake him, without success. He looked up sadly at Yarra and said, “I just hope he may wake one more time.”