The Bell Between Worlds (25 page)

Sylas looked at the vast collections of registers for a moment, but then his gaze travelled back up to the top shelf, where something had caught his eye. Nestled in among the drab brown histories were three much larger black volumes, embossed with beautiful silver designs. Each of the spines bore the same inscription, marked out in ornate silver lettering:

The Glimmer Myth

He frowned and mouthed the title under his breath. He was about to ask Fathray what it meant, but the old Scribe pulled him further down the hall, pointing his crooked finger at the long line of desks, which glowed under the beams of light.

“Here is where we scribble – transcribing each and every one of the original documents into new volumes, which are then stored on those shelves.” He pointed to the other side of the room, where long lines of identical brown leather volumes stretched the full length of the room.

“But why are you
copying
everything?”

Fathray looked down at Sylas, his eyebrows arching over the rims of his spectacles. “To keep them safe! We aren’t just copying them, we’re
encoding
them! We’re transcribing each text into one of scores of scripts – secret ones – special ones –
beautiful ones
– ones that only we know. We call them Veil Scripts. Most have been around for centuries, but we are fairly certain that we are still the only ones who can decipher them. That way we know that they can be of no use to anyone but us. Come – I’ll show you some.”

He led Sylas down the length of the room past Scribes writing frantically at their desks, each of them seeming to compete with the next to write faster and in stranger and stranger scripts. Their heads were so low to the tables that they seemed almost to be sniffing at the ink as it met the page and they only raised their eyes to throw an occasional prying glance at each other’s work.

At the far end of the earthen hall they came to a wall shrouded in shadow. With a tiny movement of his hand, Fathray drew a beam of light from the nearest table across the floor and on to the very centre of the wall. Suddenly the entire surface writhed with symbols, shapes and runes, each one carefully inscribed in one of a rainbow of colours. Sylas gasped. Everywhere he looked curves, strokes, designs and characters were entwined with one another, forming a great glistening tapestry of impossible complexity.

“This is our record of every symbol, character and rune available to us,” said Fathray with some pride. “Quite apart from being the prettiest wall in all Gheroth, it’s a wonderful tool. You see, the scripts are arranged in groups of similar types so that we can choose which we need more easily. The colours are absolutely precise, because the colours are just as important as…”

He trailed off. Sylas had taken several steps backwards and was staring open-mouthed at the wall.

“Impossible…” whispered Sylas. “It… can’t be.”

“My dear boy, what’s wrong?”

With some difficulty, Sylas drew his eyes away from the wall and looked into Fathray’s face. “I’ve seen these symbols before.”

Fathray looked puzzled. “Surely not. Where?”

Sylas felt the hairs prickling on his neck.

“In my own paintings.”

There was a silence as Fathray frowned at Sylas as he stared back, both hoping for an explanation.

“But these ciphers are only used by the Suhl,” said Fathray finally. “I’m certain that you are mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken,” said Sylas firmly. “I’ve been painting them for years – on my kites.”

There was another silence as Fathray glanced from Sylas to the symbols.

“Did anyone teach you?”

Sylas shook his head. “No, no one understood why I painted them. My mother helped me, but she never did any painting. She just taught me to use the brushes and she…”

He paused as something seemed to occur to him, then he walked to the wall and peered closely at some of the symbols. “What do you call this colour – this green?”

“Why, I believe we call it Mislehay,” said Fathray.

“And this red?”

“That’s Orivan. Sylas, what’s this about?”

Sylas turned back to the wall and pointed to a large ornate rune depicted in silver. “And this is Girigander, isn’t it?”

Fathray was startled. He stared at Sylas for a moment, stroking his long moustache.

“How did you know?”

“My mother gave me a set of paints…” said Sylas, putting his hands to his head as he struggled to understand, “and they were labelled with those names – labelled in her own handwriting…”

Fathray’s features suddenly became animated and he threw his hands in the air.

“Well, Master Tate, I can assure you that there is no other place she could have learned of these colours than here, from us! They are names that only we use!” He took Sylas by the shoulders and, in his excitement, shook him rather too hard. “This confirms it! You
are
one of us after all!”

But Sylas felt no such excitement; he felt sick. His mother
knew
about all this? How could she have known?

Fathray began pacing up and down. “Where is your mother now?”

“In hospital,” muttered Sylas.

Fathray slowed his steps. “She’s unwell?”

“She’s… yes, I mean... I’m not sure.”

“Indeed…” murmured Fathray, frowning.

“It’s just a family thing – my granny was the same… dreams
– vivid dreams, that’s all.”

The old Scribe looked intrigued. He regarded Sylas keenly for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the wall. For some time they were both silent, looking intently at the symbols. Finally Fathray drew a long breath and spoke.

“Young Sylas, we know at least one important thing: that for whatever reason you and your mother were connected to us long before you heard the Passing Bell. You certainly
were
meant to come here. I am now more certain than ever that we are right to help you reach the Magruman. Only he will know what must be done.”

Sylas did not reply. His eyes moved over the great mass of lines and colours on the wall as he thought about the kites and the paints and his mother. None of it made any sense. He had always painted whatever had come into his head – no one had ever taught him. And then there were the paints: where did his mother get them? And how had she known the names of the colours? He stared into the great labyrinth of runes, tracing their intricate lines with his eyes, wondering if she had seen these very symbols – perhaps even known their meaning.

He blinked and turned away, realising that Fathray was still looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “It’s just that I don’t know who I am any more – who my
mother
was... I mean, is.”

Fathray smiled soberly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Indeed you are a mystery, young man. You are the original – what do you people call them in the Other? Something quaint... yes: you are the original
jigsaw puzzle
.”

Sylas did not smile or react, but his features slowly filled with a new resolve.

“Fathray, I need you to help me,” he said, looking up at the old Scribe. “I know I’m supposed to go and see this Magruman person, but I need to find out what I can now.” He dropped the Samarok on the table. “This has something to do with it, I know it does. I need you to teach me to read it.”

Fathray hesitated. “But Sylas, these things are not...”

“Don’t tell me it isn’t possible,” he said firmly. “After the last few days I know nothing is impossible.”

The two regarded each other for a moment, Fathray worried and hesitant, Sylas pale but determined.

“I have to know why I’m here,” he insisted.

Fathray looked at Sylas and then at the Samarok. The gems in the cover sparkled more brightly than ever and the strange symbols glowed mysteriously. He ran his fingers over the beautiful cover, enjoying the feel of the leather, the stones, the long S-shaped groove.

“Such a marvellous thing, is it not?” he said. “The answer to so many mysteries.”

He leaned forward and opened the book. It fell open at the page where Sylas had inserted Mr Zhi’s piece of paper. Fathray first picked it up and scrutinised Mr Zhi’s handwriting, then carefully set it down next to the Samarok. For some time he stared at the open pages with an expression of unfettered delight, his eyes flicking over the lines of Ravel Runes. He hummed his artless melody to himself, seeming entirely unaware of how ludicrous it sounded.

Finally he looked up at Sylas and winked.

“Come, young man, I have much to show you.”

“They are the very instruments of ideas, of thought and creation;
taking us wherever our winged mind may choose.”

F
ATHRAY CLEARED HIS THROAT
and pressed the Samarok flat on the table.

“Let us begin with the basics,” said the old Scribe, pulling Sylas closer. “The Ravel Runes themselves. Look straight down at the pages... what do you see?”

Sylas peered down at the runes, remembering not to expect them to make sense. The characters shifted a little under his gaze and, sure enough, he soon saw the strange shapes of the Ravel Runes.

“I can see the runes,” he said.

Fathray raised his eyes to Sylas’s face for a moment, seeming surprised.

“Good. Do they mean anything to you?”

Sylas moved his eyes along a long line of beautiful, intertwined runes. “They look the same as always.”

“That’s fine. To be expected. You see, you won’t be able to read them until you have a reference, which – unless I’m mistaken – is precisely what we have here…”

With a flourish, he took up the piece of paper bearing Mr Zhi’s handwriting and pored over it for a moment. His eyes flicked along the lines, seeming to digest its contents in seconds.

“Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”

He put the piece of paper down on the table so that they could both see it and leaned across for the Samarok. He thumbed through the pages until he reached the opening lines of the book, then prodded it with his inky forefinger. “There! That’s it!”

Sylas looked down at a page that looked like any other. “That’s what?”

“Look harder!”

Sylas stared again at the page, then looked back at the piece of paper. Something caught his eye. He looked quickly backwards and forwards between the paper and the page. There, in the centre of the page, was a section of runes beginning and ending with a small space, as though arranged into a paragraph. It was about the same length as the paragraph written by Mr Zhi. He put his finger on the piece of paper and carefully counted the words. Eightyone. Then he counted the words made up of runes. Eighty-one.

Fathray chuckled next to him. “Simple, isn’t it? All Mr Zhi has done is translate the second paragraph of the book into English so that you have a reference, and I dare say that this particular paragraph contains all of the important letters of the alphabet. Now all you need to do is look at which symbol stands for which letter and you are on the way to understanding the Ravel Runes.”

Sylas was already at work, his eyes moving rapidly between the piece of paper and the page. Sure enough, the first word of the paragraph in the Samarok contained four runes, and when he looked at the piece of paper, he saw that the word was ‘They’. The same for the next word and the next word – all of them contained the same number of runes as there were letters in the English word. Where a letter was repeated in English, a rune was repeated in the Samarok. Each rune stood for a single letter.

“It
is
simple,” he said, looking up at Fathray. “But surely that’s too easy?”

Fathray laughed and patted Sylas’s cheek. “Oh, Sylas! It’s far from easy! Most people take years just to be able to
see
the runes! You are quite special! Quite special!”

Sylas frowned. “But I don’t understand – it only took me…”

“Seconds! I know! Mr Zhi must have been astonished – I certainly was! Don’t you see, Sylas? You may not be a Bringer by name, but you are one nevertheless!”

Sylas swallowed and looked back at the Samarok. A growing excitement began to course through him, partly because he felt closer to finding out why he was there, and partly because some strange, distant part of him was not in the least surprised. He felt the familiar feeling that he was on a path chosen for him, that he was discovering something that he was meant to know about himself.

Fathray was busily flicking through the Samarok. “Come, let us see if you can remember any of the runes. There,” he tapped an open page, “try that.”

“But I need to look at the first page,” said Sylas. “I need to see which rune stands for which letter.”

“Just see what you can remember.”

“But I only worked out a couple of words…”

“Just try.”

Sylas shrugged and looked down at the page. He scanned along the first line of runes, which was written in a beautiful, looping hand, but all he could see were the strange symbols. They travelled across the page in an incomprehensible web of interlocking shapes, broken only where one word ended and another began. He closed his eyes in frustration and looked away at the wall of symbols, staring at them for some moments, wondering how he was supposed to remember. But suddenly he had a thought. He had known some of the symbols on the wall before he had even heard of Mr Zhi or the Samarok, without even realising it. He thought back to when he had first tried to read the Samarok in his room and he remembered feeling that the runes were somehow familiar.

Perhaps there was part of him that knew the Ravel Runes as well.

He turned his eyes back to the page, tried to cut out all of the sounds of rustling papers and scurrying footsteps, and focused on one of the words in the first line. He allowed his mind to fall into the coils and curves of the Ravel Runes and he found himself enjoying their impossible shapes, savouring their complexity.

At that moment, without knowing why, he said: “Cold…”

His heart thumped with excitement and his eyes moved on to the next word. Inexplicably, without seeing any letters on the page, he knew what it was.

“Cold... creeps,” he said in a shaking voice.

A smile formed on his lips and he glanced up at Fathray, who was visibly quivering with excitement. Sylas took a deep breath and looked down again, this time at the beginning of the line, moving his eyes with ever increasing speed between the words.