In the Earth Abides the Flame (13 page)

A piece of parchment fell from the book and fluttered down on to the bench. On it was written, in a rough hand unlike the scholarly scribing of the book, the following doggerel: Shaft of steel shot through with strength, Burning will of Mighty Name, Rod to rule o'er all rebellion, Making nations whole again.

Hidden from rebellious hands, Free from every fleshly claim, Through the air, over water, In the earth abides the flame.

Instantly Phemanderac laid aside the law of the Golden Arrow. He turned to the Archivist, who was reading from the Book of the Sun.

'What's this?'

The fleshy man studied the parchment and the verses on it, then looked at the thin stranger. 'I don't know. I know nothing of these books.'

'But it is clearly not part of the original book, so must have been added later. Think! Have you seen script from this hand before?'

'What is so important about a piece of parchment?' The Archivist seemed perplexed at the discoveries of treasure in his musty old rooms. Probably, if the truth were told, he found himself embarrassed to have some visiting scholar make these discoveries. Embarrassed, and perhaps a little resentful.

'What do you know about the Jugom Ark?'

'Pardon? The Jugom what? I know of no such thing.'

'It was called the Arrow of Yoke.'

'Oh, the Arrow!' The Archivist looked glad to be back on familiar ground. 'Well, I know what everyone knows, of course, what they taught us at school; the Arrow was loosed in judgment by the Most High at the Destroyer, taking off his hand. It became a great heirloom of the First Men, and the guarantor of leadership to whomever possessed it. We were taught that Raupa and Furist, the two leaders of the First Men, fought over the Arrow, and this contention divided Faltha into northern and southern factions. Furist took the Arrow south out of knowledge, where it became lost.' The Archivist scratched his head. 'I was taught the Arrow was a symbol of the favour of the Most High, and in losing it Falthans lost contact with Him.

Oh yes, and whoever wields the Arrow commands the unity of all Falthans. Whatever that means.'

'Where could it be?' Phemanderac muttered. 'Is that what all this is about? Unity?'

'Where could what be? The Arrow?'

'Have you seen other books containing the same handwriting? It really is most important.'

The Archivist studied the lines for a long time, then stood slowly, walked over to a tall shelf and took a book down from it.

'What have you found?'

'Nothing really, just a suspicion. A far-fetched one at that. This book has within it a discussion of the evolution of script writing styles - look here,' he said, directing Phemanderac to the page he had just found. 'Here, at the top, is the commentary written in contemporary handwriting. This book was last copied . . .' - he referred to the cover - 'about seventy years ago. See the straight lines and uprightness of the letters? If anything, the writing slopes a little to the left. Typical of the precision, the solemnity and conservatism that characterises the typical Instruian script. And take a close look at the ligatures.'

'Where?'

'That is my point: there are none. We did away with them centuries ago. Now, look at the parchment scrap. A cursive script with full, rounded letters, exhibiting a marked slope to the right. There is a definite musical lilt to the manuscript; the words flow together like a song.

There are no books in this library written in such a script. It is too old. Remember, we re-copy each manuscript at least once every two hundred years.

'Now, follow this discussion. Here.' A stubby finger pointed to the relevant passage. '"In the early years, learning was concentrated in the hands of the Scriveners, the most famous of whom was Dakru of the House of Wenta, the last to die of those who left the Vale." It was he who composed the Domaz Skreud. What follows is a description of the style of script he used.'

'Yes, we've heard of Dakru. No one in Dhauria has written a treatise on his writing style, however,' Phemanderac acknowledged, impressed.

'I read this many years ago. Listen: "Dakru had the endearing habit of adding little serifs to some of his capital letters, an elaborate idiosyncrasy often admired, but very difficult to copy. "Like this.' He pointed to the scrap of parchment. 'See the "T" in "Through"? This had to be written either by Dakru or by a skilled and meticulous copyist. And look at the ligatures!

The "fl" in "fleshly" is almost a capital "A".'

He turned to the tall philosopher with puzzlement in his eyes. 'There can be little doubt about it,' he pronounced. 'This piece of parchment is nearly two thousand years old.'

Phemanderac nodded slowly. 'I have never heard of even a fragment such as this lasting so long a time,' he said almost to himself. 'Except for the Five Books themselves. Perhaps it has been preserved by being held within the leaves of the Book of the Golden Arrow.

Nevertheless, if you are right, it confirms my suspicions. This is a riddle, written in the style of the fancies so popular in the Vale of the First Men. The only difference is this riddle is meant to be taken seriously.'

'And the subject of the riddle?'

'The subject is without doubt the Jugom Ark, the Arrow of Yoke.'

'I see no reference to the Arrow,' the Archivist said.

'I would have thought the first two lines were quite sufficient: "Shaft of steel shot through with strength/Burning will of Mighty Name". To what else could they refer?'

The Archivist pursed his lips.

'Look at the cover of the book from which it fell,' Phemanderac pressed on. 'The Golden Arrow. Coincidence?

'And to what other meaning could the line "Making peoples whole again" refer? The Unity of the Arrow, a common theme of the legend of the Jugom Ark. My friend, this follows the classic structure of the riddle: the first verse establishes the subject, while the second provides the information.'

'Which is?' The Instruian scratched his forehead.

'The first couplet explains that the Arrow has been hidden, and hints at why,' Phemanderac explained, trying not to sound condescending. 'The second couplet is the riddle proper, telling us where to find it.'

'Do you mean this riddle is like a map giving us the location of the great treasure?'

Phemanderac noted the scepticism in the other's voice.

'That is exactly what it is.'

The Archivist stood to his full height and folded his arms against his chest. 'Then it is a flight of fancy, for in my mind there is no question the Arrow of Yoke never existed.'

'Never existed? How can you say this of such an important part of our history? A little while ago you struggled to even remember what you knew about the Arrow. What makes you now say it is nothing but a myth?'

'Undoubtedly there was no such thing. We descendants of the First Men have always displayed the tendency to invest mere symbols with human faculties or even supernatural powers, as though trying to make up for that which we lost. Our legends are full of quests for this object or that place of fantasy: Kantara, the house of Everlasting Life; Bi'r Birkat, the liquid gold lake. Need I continue?'

'No. You've made your point. The scholars of Dhauria have made too many mistakes by interpreting obscure passages literally, and basing their doctrines and careers on them; perhaps I run the risk of compounding their mistakes.'

Phemanderac's comments barely slowed the Archivist as he constructed his argument. 'Even the Fuirfad, the indwelling of the Most High, may itself be only a symbol.'

'The Firefall a symbol?' The philosopher tried to keep his indignation in check. 'Even in Dhauria no one has dared to say such a thing. Some of us devote our lives to investigating the Fuirfad. Do you think we would do so if we saw it merely as a symbol?'

'There may have been lives of devotion to the Fuirfad, yet tonight you say you have discovered in my archives things that centuries of study have not revealed,' the Archivist said, displaying his shrewdness. 'Answer this. In all your years of study, have you ever experienced the Fire the way it is described in Domaz Skreud?'

The philosopher shook his head.

'In the two thousand years since the destruction of the Vale, has there even been one instance of anyone experiencing the Fire?'

'But that is consistent with what the Most High told us! Part of our punishment was to lose the Gift of Fire. Because we do not experience it now does not exclude the possibility of its existence then.'

'No, but it does bring it into question. The writings are, in my view, entirely consistent with the human need to create mystery in order to justify morality - or lack of it.'

'So you do not believe in the Most High?'

'I know of no one who does.'

'Perhaps that accounts for the moral state of Instruere,' came the caustic reply.

The Archivist raised his eyebrows. 'A lack of belief in the Most High has in no way lessened my commitment to my own morals,' he shot back. 'The current moral state of this city is exactly what one would expect in a time of confusion when primitive beliefs are being exchanged for more human-honouring, life-affirming codes. Within a generation we will experience a golden age such as we have never before known.'

'Sounds remarkably like Kantara or Bi'r Birkat to me,' Phemanderac said, a little unkindly. 'If you are so positive about the future, what are you doing studying the past?'

'My study of the past led me to these conclusions,' the Archivist replied. 'There was such cruelty and injustice among the sons of the First Men that I could only doubt the lofty claims they made for their ancestors. In my view the path to the future lies in rejecting the strictures of the past, and especially their religious dimension.'

'Quite a view for an archivist to take!' Phemanderac chuckled. 'But you have yet to persuade me of the inadequacy of the moral code, or the non-existence of the Jugom Ark. Failure to obey the code is the fault of the person, not the code. And as for the Arrow, and the possible existence of legendary things, you have yet to explore my assertion that I come from the remnants of the Vale of the First Men.'

'That puzzles me,' the Archivist admitted, 'given that what you say is true, and not merely a misidentification based on generations of wishful thinking. I will have to take your word for it.'

'Take my word? Surely oaths are part of the old moral code?'

'I never said the transition would be easy.' The Archivist smiled as he issued his glib reply.

Phemanderac stood and stretched tired muscles. 'Nevertheless, I value the discoveries we have made this night, the last perhaps more than all the others. Will you allow me to make a copy of the riddle?'

* * *

What passed for night settled on The Pinion, though the inquisitors in the central chamber seemed to need no sleep, and appeared to enjoy depriving their prisoners of it. Leith's cellmates eventually managed to drift into uneasy slumber, something that eluded him.

Some time later Mahnum regained consciousness. The Bhrudwan had been taken from the cell perhaps an hour earlier. Leith caught a glimpse of him in the dim red glow of the central chamber, bent backwards over something in the shadows. They are going to torture him.

He related to his father the events that led to his striking the guard, and surmised it was for this crime he was imprisoned.

'No, that is but a pretext,' Mahnum said. 'You and I are here because of the reputation of your grandsire. The Bhrudwan is here because he may have knowledge the Instruians can use. No doubt the Arkhos of Nemohaim ordered this.'

'My grandsire?'

'Modahl. My father. A spy for the Firanese king, though not as secret a spy as 1 thought. So they talked about him behind the Iron Door! He must have been involved in more than he told us.'

'My grandfather?'

'Leith, there is no mystery about this. My father was already a veteran when 1 was born, and was killed when I was young. I barely knew him. There's no more.'

Leith detected something evasive in his father's voice. 'Mother said there was a long story.'

'She also said that much of it was not known,' he replied shortly. 'Now time presses us, my son, and we need to consider how we might escape this place. If only my head did not hurt so much!'

Leith waited patiently while his father sat on his haunches, deep in thought. He tried not to look at the cell door, through which the guards would come for him. But he could not help considering his fate. From somewhere in the darkness beyond the cell window the Bhrudwan warrior made small, agonised sounds. Leith found himself tensing at each indrawn breath. If they cause a Lord of Fear so much pain, what will they do to me?

Finally the sounds drew Leith to the far window. He stood and peered into the red-tinged darkness, where he could make out two shapes occupied in doing something dreadful to the Bhrudwan. What it was they did he could not tell, but they kept doing it for what seemed like hours.

So much for Hal's protection, Leith thought, and the beginnings of real fear began pulling at his bowels. That will soon be me. At that moment the Bhrudwan warrior lifted his head and, his face illuminated by a flickering torch, smiled at Leith in the midst of his torture.

It was all the youth could do not to cry out in fright. What sort of magic is at work here?

He waited by the window, ignoring his father's whispered commands to come away, and watched the guards work on the Bhrudwan, clearly convinced they were hurting him. The grunting and sighing continued, but now Leith knew it was pretence, he could hear the acting in the sounds.

Eventually the two guards tired of their sport and disappeared into the darkness. A minute or so later they walked past the door of the cell, with a jangling of keys and whispered ribaldry.

Up the stone stairs they clomped, then the trapdoor creaked open and closed.

As soon as the echoes died away the Bhrudwan let out a deep throaty rumble, then pulled savagely at his chains. Rather than jerking them, he maintained a constant pressure far longer than Leith would have believed possible. Mahnum joined his son at the window and watched in awe as, in a display of raw power, the warrior pulled himself free of the machine that had held him fast.