Thief’s Magic (54 page)

The lamp snapped into life. Behind her, she heard Sa-Gest sigh.

“The Scribe,” Sa-Mica began.

“Many years ago lived a man named Lem. He was a writer of documents and keeper of accounts, taught by his father who had also been taught by his father and his father before him. But Lem’s hand was steadier and his skill greater than any of his ancestors’. Flattered by the compliments and praise of customers, he grew ambitious. He vowed to learn all there was to know of the art of beautiful writing. He left his father and a young wife and set out to become the greatest calligrapher in the world.

“He travelled far, and for many years. He visited many lands and met people very different from himself. Wherever he went, he sought those who had elevated the work of the pen to an art, and all shared their knowledge with him.

“He learned how to carve pens of reed and wood, of spines and feathers. He even found a jeweller who could show him how to shape pens from gold and silver, or carve them from glass or gemstone. Each of these pens produced writing of a different quality, their shape and form altering letters in a subtle and unique way, and he mastered them all.

“He learned how to make paper from grasses and leaves, from hide and hair, from mud and cloth. He even learned how to write on living skin, writing words on the arms and legs and backs of those who sought such decoration. Each of these papers was more or less receptive to the application of ink, some welcoming, some resistant, and he understood them all.

“He learned how to extract ink out of bark and sap, out of fruit and flowers, out of insects and sea creatures, out of the glands of animals and from the humble earth. He even learned to write words that disappeared and could be made to appear again in the right conditions. Each of these inks must be produced with careful measurement and process, thinned or thickened to the right consistency to match pen and paper, and he mixed them all.”

Sa-Mica paused. The desert seemed silent, though it was never completely so. The faint whistle of the wind was always present, as well as the squeak and chirrup of insects. Rielle had felt a quickening of interest at the lists of ink ingredients, but, brought back to the present, her stomach sank. Would she be allowed to draw in prison? Chalk was easy enough to come by, but paper was expensive. And what would she draw? Would she ever see anything more than the inside of her cell?

Taking a sip from his water flask, Sa-Mica cleared his throat and returned to the story.

“Twenty years passed and he longed to return to his home and family. But he knew he had not learned everything there was to know of his art, as he’d vowed. He’d heard tales told of a form of writing practised long ago, before The Restoration began. A form of writing now forbidden, for it required magic.

“If he returned home, he must admit he had not done as he had vowed or else lie. He was pious, but he was also proud. A man of his integrity did not hide behind such deceptions. He could not decide whether defeat or dishonesty was worse. Then, whether by his own design or at another’s suggestion, he struck upon the idea that he only need
learn
the forbidden form of writing, not actually practise it.”

Sa-Mica’s eyes rose to meet Rielle’s, then he looked away, reaching for his water flask. She watched him drink a single mouthful then carefully stopper it and put it aside.

“Returning to those places where he’d heard or read of the skill, he sought more information. He reasoned that if he could not discover anything then he could return home satisfied that he had acquired all the available knowledge of his art. But the forbidden secret was not lost and made the knowledge he had gathered in the last twenty years seem small and insignificant. For with this skill no ink would fade, no paper rot or burn, no knowledge be destroyed, no history be forgotten.”

Sa-Mica chuckled. “That, I am told by a reliable source, is an exaggeration. Most likely Lem embellished the tale to make his choice appear more noble.” He took another sip, then continued reading.

“Amazed by such an invention, he eagerly learned how it was done. Satisfied that he had achieved what he had vowed to achieve, he returned home. There he found his father weary with age and ready to hand over his business, his children grown and married. He set to work and gained great wealth by putting nearly all that he had learned to good use, and ensuring his family’s wealth by teaching his sons.

“But as time passed he grew frustrated with inks that faded and paper that yellowed. The knowledge that his skill and effort could be preserved for ever, not lost to time, was like a burr in his clothing that he could not find. Most of all he lamented the deterioration of his greatest work, a decorated copy of the Book of Angels. How could the Angels protest if magic was used to record their deeds and wisdom for the teaching of countless souls to come?

“And so he conceived a work of such beauty and grandeur that might stir an Angel’s heart to forgiveness – perhaps even gratitude. He set out to use forbidden knowledge to create a copy of the Book of Angels that would exist for ever.

“He laboured over every page, neglecting his family, business and even his appearance. He sought places where the Stain of his creation would not be noticed. When he could no longer find any, and was in danger of discovery, he left to seek a safer location. He found a remote house on a mountain where few travellers strayed. There he worked, year after year, existing on mountain herbs and magic. He forgot how to speak to others, driving away those few visitors who came his way. The more beautiful the book became, the more ugly and sick he grew.

“One day a great priest walked along that dangerous, weedy track. Dreams had sent him from his home, and along this path. When he arrived he knew why the Angels had sent him. The house existed in a great void, all the magic stolen by Lem to create his book. He prepared himself for a great battle, expecting to face a terrible sorcerer within. Instead he found a sick old man and the most beautiful Book of Angels he’d ever seen.

“So he nursed the old man back to health. As he learned what it had cost to make the book he recoiled from it. Lem heard of the dreams that had brought the priest and rejoiced, for he believed the Angels had sent him to receive the book. But the priest refused to touch it or take it away with him. Disturbed by what he had discovered, and unsure what to do about it, the priest left to consult with his peers.

“Lem tied the book to his back and followed, forcing his aged body to hurry. As he caught up with the priest the man regarded the book with fresh horror. Looking over his shoulder, Lem saw a trail of Stain stretching behind him. The book was drawing magic into itself.

“At last Lem saw the travesty he had created. Using magic one last time, he destroyed the book, casting the pages into the wind. Then he collapsed, sure that his soul would soon be torn asunder by the Angels.

“The priest, seeing that Lem was a good and pious man at heart, was saddened. He carried him back to the mountain house, then aided him in turning the place into a monastery. There Lem lived his last days teaching priests the art of writing so that they might spread the Angels’ wisdom in more humble forms. And it is said that when he died, the Angels forgave him, for his and his pupils’ work created more magic than he had stolen, and his art had inspired many thousands of souls. But only those who pass into their domain know if that is true.”

Sa-Mica lowered the book, closed his eyes and was silent. Then he blew out the lamp, closed the book and put it away.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked quietly.

Rielle blinked. He was looking at her, not Sa-Gest. She considered the story and began to shake her head, then checked herself. One question had been worrying at her since they’d left Fyre, and maybe now was the time to ask.

“How many days’ travel do we have left?”

The unscarred corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Many quarterdays, but not all of them through the desert.” He lay down on his sleeping mat. “I have not heard you praying, Rielle. You will meet an Angel one day. Ignoring them will make no difference to the outcome.”

Rielle swallowed. Her mouth was dry and Sa-Gest had finished all her water. She lay down and considered Sa-Mica’s observation. She had tried to pray while in the temple cell, but the words had stuck in her throat. It felt presumptuous to ask the Angels for anything after what she had done. Her crime was unforgivable, so what was the point of asking for mercy?

But perhaps there was some hope for her. After all, she had stolen far less magic from the Angels than Lem had, and they had forgiven him.

He had created more magic through his art. Though she had been taught that magic was generated by acts of creation she had always assumed that only the greatest of human endeavours produced any significant amount of it. Had she been making it by painting and drawing? If she was allowed to draw in prison, could she replace what she had stolen?

Whether praying was pointless or not, it would not do any harm. But as she opened her mouth the thought of Sa-Gest listening made her voice freeze in her throat. So instead she recited a simple prayer taught to children, praising the Angels and wishing her family good fortune.

That would have to do for now.

E
ight – or was it nine? – days later they left the sands behind them. A line of peaks had appeared on the horizon a few days before, growing ever taller as they approached. Ahead, the road wound between the claw-like toes of the mountains then climbed the more generous curves of their lower reaches before disappearing into a fold of the steep higher slopes.

That trek would begin the next day, thankfully. The sun hung low in the sky and a dark huddle of buildings shadowed the desert’s edge not far ahead, the distinctive radiating lines atop a temple spire rising above the highest roof. It was the hour when people returned to their homes, and as Rielle and her guardians entered the village the locals stopped to stare, their gazes lingering on the chain around her neck before they continued on with more haste than before.

The same had happened at the few other villages they’d passed through. Rielle could not guess how common it was for priests to bring a tainted this route to the prison, but it was often enough for the locals to know exactly what she was. In one village three youths had followed them, jeering. In another the occupants came out of their homes to hiss curses at her. Sa-Mica had instructed her to walk between him and Sa-Gest. At first she’d assumed this was to prevent her dashing away and perhaps using a villager as a hostage, but she soon realised it was mostly for her own protection.

It appeared that in this village all she would be subjected to was glares, and most of these from doorways and windows. The main road was the only thoroughfare, lined on either side by buildings. The temple was at the furthest end. Though taller than the rest thanks to the tower, the building was disproportionately small, which gave it a top-heavy, looming presence. Sa-Mica led them around it to two low brick buildings: one with two wings stretching forward from either side, the other nestled in the courtyard between them and barely bigger than the cell back in Fyre.

As she saw the gate set into the front of the little building Rielle realised there was more than a resemblance. All of the temples they had stopped at so far contained a cell, but this was the first she’d encountered with one separate from the other buildings.

A priest emerged from the central section of the larger building and walked forward to meet them. His expression was warm as he saw Sa-Mica, but his smile faded instantly as he examined her and Sa-Gest.

“Welcome again, Sa-Mica,” he said. “I see I will be having a late night, tonight.”

“Only a little later than usual, Sa-Jeim. This is Sa-Gest, who will be taking a position on the mountain. He will share the watch with me.”

Sa-Jeim nodded to the young priest. It might have been an illusion cast by the thin light of dusk, but there was something about the calculating way he looked at Sa-Gest that sent a chill down her spine. She could not decide if she’d read dislike or envy, or both.

“Then we’d best get you all settled,” he said, drawing a cluster of keys out of his robes and gesturing to the cell.

Rielle shrugged off her pack and handed it to Sa-Mica. The village priest opened the gate and she obediently stepped inside. Leaving Sa-Gest to guard her, the other priests headed into the house.

It was dark inside the cell, but the walls radiated warmth absorbed during the day. The only feature was a bench built into the back wall, of the same bricks that formed the walls. The floor was of stone covered in sand that had blown in through the gate. It smelled of stale urine and since she could not see well enough to be sure if the bench was clean, she took handfuls of sand and tossed it onto the bench hoping that it would absorb any lingering residue.

Sa-Gest waited beside the gate, his pack at his feet. It was not long before Sa-Mica emerged, bringing food and drink for them both. Her meal was stewed grains and a cup of water. She endeavoured not to look at Sa-Gest’s, but it smelled of meat and agil, the herbed and spiced liquor priests produced for their own consumption and that was said to have healing qualities. Though her meal was flavourless it was, at least, not the hard and dry fare they’d been eating for many quarterdays.

Soon Sa-Mica returned carrying a bucket, a sleeping mat and a chair. After opening the gate briefly to give her the first two, he sent Sa-Gest to the house to sleep. He turned away while she relieved herself, then settled onto the chair and brought out his little book. It was fully night now, so he lit his reading lamp and held it over the pages.

Spreading the sleeping mat over the bench, Rielle sat and listened to his deep voice.

“Over a hundred years ago there lived a wealthy widow named Deraia who had five children. Though she could afford to hire servants to do all the domestic duties, she loved to cook and was famous for it.

“One day there came to her land a terrible plague. When the first of Deraia’s children fell ill she turned to the healing lore passed down from mother to daughter in her family, but it proved ineffective and the child died.