The Written (22 page)

Farden had never slept a deeper
sleep.

“
Never not to
understand the beast,

for takes one bite, evermore
curs’d to feast.

All morality and goodness, fair
well to silver moon,

For evil take thee, wolf claws
and doom.”

Lycan curse

A banging awoke him. A
persistent resolute knocking that stubbornly shook his recently
acquired door. The blankets tugged at him to get up, and his eyes
snapped open to see a boring stone ceiling. It told him to stop
staring and answer the door, so he did.

Svarta stood behind it with her
arms crossed. It was now night time and the low yellow light of a
nearby torch cast angular shadows across her face, accenting her
stern expressions of impatience. ‘I have been knocking for a long
time,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, I was asleep. Look,
by now you must know I’m not here to harm anyone, so why can’t we
just forget that you want to lock me up in a cell and start over?’
The Siren merely stared at him and frowned. ‘Do you want to come in
or something?’ He asked.

She snorted and turned around
to walk away. ‘We don’t have time for your games mage. Follow me,
and be quick about it.’

Farden smirked to himself and
adjusted his rumpled clothing. He smoothed his hair back into some
sort of socially acceptable order and rubbed the last vestiges of
sleep from his eyes. He noticed his sword and Scalussen vambraces
had been returned. He decided against taking the blade but slid the
pair of vambraces onto his wrists. The metal contracted slowly
around his skin with tiny slithering whispers like a coiled snake
wrapping tightly around a tree. Farden smiled. A new pair of
surprisingly comfy boots had been left by the door, so he put them
on. His red scarf was nowhere to be seen however, and he wondered
if Cheska would mind. He had been threw a shipwreck after all.
Farden then turned, ruffled Lazy’s ears, and slammed the door with
a bang.

‘Who’s
we
?’ he called after the tall Siren.

The mage followed Svarta back
through their huge room and out into the cavernous corridor once
again. They meandered through long seemingly endless identical
hallways that curved through the mountain like the tunnels of some
monstrous rabbit warren. Farden felt completely lost already in the
grand palace, but he held his tongue during the walk and walked
slightly behind Svarta. She was silent and brooding, occasionally
throwing him a look to see if he were still there.

After a while the mage and the
Siren reached a tall set of iron doors and Svarta stopped abruptly
and swivelled on one heel to face him.

‘If it were up to me you
wouldn’t even be standing here. But Farfallen thinks there is some
sort of good in you, and wishes you to be here for the reading. I
for one think you should be kept under lock and key and watched
like a dangerous animal.
If
it were up to
me of course.’ Svarta cocked her head to one side.

‘Of course,’ Farden nodded and
mentally rolled his eyes.

‘Don’t be clever with me,
mage,’ she snapped.

‘If I had wanted to hurt
anyone, then believe me I would have done it already. If Farfallen
trusts me then maybe you should too.’ Farden stared defiantly into
her yellow eyes. Svarta’s lips curled into a reptilian snarl and
she spun back around. She pushed against the doors and with a huge
creaking scrape they swung open.

A few torches glimmered in the
shadows, trying to throw their meagre light out into the cavernous
hall as best they could. Behind them the doors closed with a long
echoing thud and Farden tried blinking his eyes to adjust to the
gloom. Between the spots dancing in front of his vision and the
yellow flickering of candles, he could discern a massive shape at
the end of the room. Farfallen crouched in the shadows, eyes closed
and quiet like an elaborate statue.

He felt Svarta close to his
ear, whispering. ‘Unless someone asks you a question, you are to be
silent in this room.’

Farden nodded and took his
place a dozen paces in front of the silent dragon. He looked up at
the faraway stone ceiling held high above them by the many thick
stone pillars stacked around him, like uniform grey trees. The hall
was bare, with no decoration or furniture, and only a small shrine
sat against the back wall behind Farfallen, a powerful looking
statue of what looked like something half man, half dragon. The
alabaster figure sprouted arching wings from his back and a thick
spiny tail curved around stone clouds that formed his pedestal.
Small candles hid in niches or danced gleefully in small metal
holders, sparkling for their deity, Thron the Siren
weather-god.

‘Bring the book!’ Svarta called
to the shadows, and soon a small man shuffled from the darkness
holding the tearbook, looking for all the world like a shrivelled
shrew with glasses set into his wrinkly face. The bespectacled man
put the thick tome on a low stone table under the dragon’s chin and
then backed away into the darkness. As he did so, Farfallen opened
his eyes, and Svarta moved forward to the table and grudgingly
beckoned the mage to follow. Farden did so silently and became
aware of a low hum that seemed to be coming from the dragon, like
the rumble of a distant avalanche.

Svarta turned the book over so
that its back cover was facing upwards, and turned to the last page
slowly. Farfallen flicked one eye to look at Farden. ‘Tearbooks go
backwards. The start is the first memory a dragon has, the last are
the most recent,’ he rumbled. A single tear rolled from the golden
orb and coursed its way with agonising slowness down his scaly jaw
line. The single tear quivered on the very end of his chin and hung
for a long second before dropping quietly onto the book.

Farden looked down at the pages
and saw them quiver with energy. Nothing happened for a moment, and
then slowly, as Svarta closed her eyes and lifted the page ever so
slightly, a rune slowly appeared. It was swiftly followed by
another, and yet another, until the page had been completely
turned. The strange foreign lettering that Farden couldn’t even
begin to understand kept writing itself across the next page and
then the next after that, filling up every inch of blank paper. The
letters danced over and over themselves, every invisible
quill-stroke scurrying across the page like sand through an
hourglass word by spidery word. As Svarta’s page-turning became
quicker, so did the letters. The lines soon scrolled across the
flying pages and Farden could see the dragon’s eyes twitching as he
tried to follow the writing at the same pace. The mage wondered if
Svarta would slow down, but her practised hand movements only sped
up. The sound of her hand on the pages grew to a flurry of little
papery whip-cracks that echoed around the hall.

Suddenly she stopped, and the
writing slammed to a halt, letters bunching up messily at the first
line as their momentum carried them forward. As slowly as she had
opened the book, Svarta closed the front cover and her eyes locked
with her dragon. He made a deep rumble and her neck twitched
involuntarily. The next moment she relaxed and nodded and then
clicked her long fingers high above her head. Once again from the
shadows, shuffling inch by inch, came the same old man with the
crystal spectacles. With the same deliberation and overall speed he
carefully picked up the tearbook, turned, and disappeared into the
shadows once more.

Farden was confused. Svarta
fixed him with her usual condescending stare. ‘Feel privileged
mage. Never before has an outsider watched a dragon rebond with his
tearbook.’

‘I’m honoured.’ He said this to
Farfallen.

‘I can feel the memories
flowing through me again. I had not realised how much had been lost
to me; names, places, kings and queens, all coming back to me
now…bit by bit.’ The Old Dragon drew a long breath in through his
nose and closed his eyes.

Farden watched him as he held
it for an impossible time, and then finally he exhaled a blast of
red-hot breath from each nostril. The air rippled like the heat
from a blacksmiths forge. ‘A long time has passed since I last
breathed fire, far too long a time for a dragon.’ He pushed himself
up and sat upright, making his scales undulate hypnotically in the
candlelight. Rearing his spiny head, Farfallen took a deep breath
of air and spewed forth a deafening blast of searing fire that
curled around pillars and licked at the granite ceiling. Heat
bathed the two standing at his side, and Farden’s eyes were wide
with awe. Svarta even looked happy for a change, managing to clasp
her bony hands together in what he could only guess was delight.
Farfallen roared again and Farden had to cover his ears to avoid
the pain. Echoes danced around the chamber like winter waves on a
shore, but slowly the pillars stopped humming and vibrating, and
the Old Dragon returned to crouching in front of the shrine. He
closed his eyes once more and was silent.

Svarta tugged at the mage’s
sleeve and headed slowly for the door. She whispered to him while
they walked. ‘Come, I’ll show you where the kitchen is. I assume
the Written eat?’

Farden’s eyes burned with the
after-image from the bright fire and he rubbed at them to get rid
of the dancing dots that swam through his vision. ‘We do eat, yes,
but only live children.’

‘Very funny mage,’ came the
reply. ‘Enough of your nonsense, let’s go.’

‘Do you think it will be long
before you realise I’m not a spy? It’s just I don’t think I’ll be
here for that long you see and…’

‘Good,’ she snapped and closed
the tall doors with a bang. Her fists were clenched by her sides
and her chin was high, pointing the way ahead like the scaly bow of
a narrow ship. She led the way down another long corridor that
looked like all the others. Farden had no idea how anyone could
find their way around this place. ‘If you think you can toy with
me, then you’re mistaken. Just because Farfallen has taken a liking
to you doesn’t mean I have to.’

‘What is your problem? What
else do I have to do to prove I’m not going to murder all of you in
your sleep?’

The Siren queen shot him a
murderous look over her shoulder. ‘There’s something dark inside of
you, mage, and I can feel it even if the Old Dragon can’t. I won’t
be comfortable until you’re off this island.’

Farden shook his head, and
wondered how far he could push her. ‘Well what am I supposed to do
then, while I’m staying here?’

‘Stay in the confines of the
palace, and no one will harm you. No Arka has set foot in the
citadel in fifteen years, so wandering around the streets is out of
the question. I don’t want some angry over-zealous citizen deciding
to pick a fight with you. Who knows what would happen with your
witchcraft.’ Svarta looked the mage up and down with a flick of her
head.

‘Thanks for being concerned
with my safety.’ Farden said dryly. Guards stared at him as they
passed, and the soldiers holding the doors open watched the two
with quiet whispers and not-so-subtle pointing. Maybe Svarta was
right: the ceasefire had always been shaky at the best of times.
‘Fine, maybe you’re right. What happens to the tearbook now?’ asked
Farden, remembering the Arkmages’ words.

‘Like the Old Dragon, it must
rest,’ said Svarta. Farden could hear the effort to stay calm in
her voice.

‘Well when can we start reading
it then?’

‘Soon mage, enough with this
questioning.’ She glared at him. Farden scowled. ‘Where can I go
then? Is there anywhere I can train?’

Svarta stopped in her tracks
and whirled around. ‘Are you joking?’

Farden set his jaw resolutely
and matched her stare. ‘No, I’m deadly serious. I’ve been
unconscious for a week and I need to regain my strength.’

‘You want me to agree to you
practising your dangerous Arka magick in the palace of Hjaussfell?’
She was incredulous.

The mage nodded ‘Yes, if it’s
not too inconvenient.’

‘By the gods,’ Svarta closed
her eyes tightly for a second and clenched her fists. She breathed
out heavily and spat her words at him. ‘Fine, leave it to me.’ And
with that she turned around and resumed her fast pace.

‘Thank you Svarta.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank
Farfallen, his word is law,’ she snapped, and shot him a look that
would have killed a lesser man. There was an awkward silence,
broken only by the smart tap of their footfalls on the rock floor.
Farden was slowly realising there was a lot to the Sirens that he
had never been told. ‘Why Farfallen, why is he king and not one of
the others?’

‘He’s the oldest and goldest of
them all. The longer a dragon lives then the golder he gets, much
the same as we go greyer with age. The golder a dragon is, the
greater his right to rule. The goldest out of all of them is
crowned the Old Dragon, and he rules until he dies. A few of the
elders in the council are close to his age.’

‘How old is he?’ Another boyish
question.

‘We have been bonded for three
hundred years, but Farfallen is close to a thousand years old,’ she
said.

‘You don’t look older than
forty,’ replied Farden. It wasn’t supposed to sound like a
compliment, but it did, and Svarta merely nodded.

‘Whatever power the dark elves
left behind gave our ancestors extremely long lives, hundreds of
years longer than you Arka…’ Svarta said snidely.

‘You must be so superior to us
peasants.’ Farden narrowed his eyes at her and tried to add as much
sarcasm to his tone as he could. ‘Speaking of the Arka, I need to
send a message to the magick council.’

‘You can do that after you
eat.’ No sooner had she said that than the two of them emerged into
a long room that roared with the sound of conversation and the
clattering of plates. Steam rose from pots and stoves huddling
together along the far wall, mingling with cauldrons and trays of
food. Farden’s stomach did a little turn as the smell of broth,
bread, meat, and all sorts of other victuals reached his nose. The
tables filling the room were crammed with soldiers and servants.
Svarta stood to his right with her arms crossed, her favourite
pose. She leaned to one of the guards flanking the door and
whispered something. He took a quick look at the mage behind her
and nodded.