Vision Revealed

Further Adventures of Svarnil

by Anne E.G. Nydam

All rights reserved. Copyright © 2008 by Anne E.G. Nydam

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

ISBN 978-0-9822766-3-1

First printing 2008.

www.nydamprints.com

Illustrations by Anne E.G. Nydam.

PROLOGUE “Oh my God,” breathed Nulif reverently, “In the name of All the Aspects!” He turned the pages of the ancient manuscript gently, his face full of awe. “Where did you say this was found?” The trader stood beside Nulif in the courtyard of the Great Collection in K’Ten. He was smirking with satisfaction. He had the feeling he would get whatever price he asked for this one. He answered, “Just north of the Fulakwe River. In a cave up there on the edge of the Border Plateau. I bought it from the herdsman who found it. Worth something to the Great Collection then, is it?” “Certainly,” Nulif answered, hardly lifting his eyes from the small, ragged book with its thin parchment pages, “Here’s gold.” The trader raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was more than he had hoped. Should he push for a little more, seeing how easily the young librarian had parted with such a sum? But the other man had already turned away, walking slowly toward the staircase, still engrossed in the battered old thing. The trader shrugged to himself and went on his way, wondering whether it was worth looking for more of the same next time he headed north. Nulif, holding his acquisition tenderly, was thinking almost the same thing. “I’ll ask the Head Librarians for permission to make a research expedition,” he decided. “If I can confirm what I think this is…” He shook his head and whistled under his breath. “It’ll knock the deck out from under the Shikat. It will shake all of us Chebik-lan!” He laughed out loud with wonder. “I cannot believe it! A miracle indeed.”

CHAPTER 1: Svarnil hears of a new legend Long ago there dwelt in the jungle a gentle people who lived in harmony with all the other creatures and everything that grew, living as if theirs were the First World. They were peaceful and content, never fighting among themselves because they never wished for more than they had. None were hungry and none were lonely. Their beautiful clothes were spun from the leaves and flowers, and even from the silver dew that glimmered in the lush undergrowth. They were filled with such joy that wherever they went, they sang. Their voices were sweet and clear, and rang through the jungle making every living creature glad. But although they had no need of laws or armies, the leader of these gentle people did forbid one thing. “You must never let your voices be heard beyond the safety of our jungle,” he said.

- from The Gentle People, An Ancient Tale of the Indigenous Jungle Tribes

Svarnil of Tanoeb of the Fellowship of Bards was once again far from home. Yet far from home as she was, she felt as if she were among family, for wasn’t Jiriya like a sister to her? It was three years ago, now, that they had travelled together from the Temple of the Eluthien south along the River Chaurapadhur all the way to Uparajsarnamra in the Sinbal Tribal Lands. Together they had been kidnapped and sold into slavery to the Thurls in Kabr Fan. They had been each other’s only hope through the countless dark days in that living tomb,

where only their belief in each other had kept body and soul together. And together, along with Galithinion the priestess of the Eluthien and Prince Oru of ancient legend, they had achieved the impossible: escape from Kabr Fan. Visiting now with Jiriya and Oru in Sisoa, where they lived with Jiriya’s father and Aunt Batih, Svarnil felt as welcome as she did in her own parent’s roundhouse in Tanoeb half a world distant in the Northmountains. This was the first time Svarnil had ever been to Sisoa, and the largest city she had ever seen. Even the tent city outside the White Gate, with its shifting avenues of merchants’ and traders’ tents, was as large or larger than the village where she had been born. The city itself, once the elf entered, seemed to go on forever in narrow shadowy alleys and bright sun-bleached squares. Svarnil would never have found Aunt Batih’s house, except for knowing that one of the gatekeepers was Jiriya’s brother Yzhasaan. As soon as she had introduced herself, he had sent someone to show her the way. So now here she was, ten days later, sitting cross-legged on the roof with Jiriya and slicing dantuul roots for the evening meal. The hot day was cooling toward dusk and it was pleasant to sit here and talk of nothing much. Jiriya’s father Wadayras was already home from his station, so they would eat as soon as Oru returned from the palace. Oru was a secretary for the Empress’s vizier, a job at which he excelled, much to the surprise of many at court, who thought him a commoner from some insignificant village out in the desert. How could they possibly know that the young man they saw before them, with his sober gaze and quiet efficiency, had two hundred years ago been the very Emperor Oru whose legend they had all heard since childhood? Of course Oru could never claim that heritage, and nor did he seem to desire it. He had

found in his life with Jiriya more than enough to bring him joy. When he entered the house that evening, however, Oru did not seem joyful. He groaned and announced, “Trouble with Minar again! Does it never end?” Aunt Batih, who, like most Sisoans, followed politics avidly, asked him eagerly for details. “No one is sure exactly what it’s about this time,” he explained, “In fact, I’ve been told to go down and find out. It seems there is some Minarian doing something heretical just on our side of the border. Merchant General Hadash has requested that we put a stop to it. The implication being that if we don’t, they will send their own soldiers into Yuwara Ul Sahd to crush this thing themselves. Of course, Her Majesty can’t allow Minarian troops in Sisoan territory, abrogating her authority...” He spread his hands in resignation. “So I am to travel all the way down there, right to the northernmost loop of the Fulakwe, to ascertain whether or not we wish to interfere.” Jiriya snorted derisively. “Who cares what happens down there anyway! It’s nowhere near Sisoa. It might as well be the moon! But no. Just because Kahan-Atar fancies herself an empress she’s got to make a fuss over every last inch that ever belonged to the Sisoan Empire of Yuwara Ul Sahd.” Jiriya’s father sighed at her disrespect for the empress, but Svarnil asked, “Doesn’t anyone have any idea what the heresy is? Or why is this Minarian in Yuwara Ul Sahd instead of Minar anyway?” Oru shook his head. “Apparently he found something in the caves there at the Border Plateau. Something having to do with the Chebik-lan. The border was farther north at the time of Chebik, I think, and that area would have been Minarian then.” He shrugged. “Eight days there, and eight

days back, in addition to whatever time it takes to clear this up.” Svarnil fell silent, and remained thoughtful through supper. Finally, near bedtime, she said to Oru, “I know very little about Minar to begin with, but I wonder if it might be new history this Minarian is finding. It sounds to me like there might be a legend to be learned in this. Do you think I might accompany you?” So it was that very early the next morning Svarnil found herself on a klaameleh, wedged between water skins and packs of food, and feeling terribly unstable. Jiriya, who had come to the White Gate with Svarnil and Oru to see them off, saw the look on the elf’s face and laughed. “You’ll be fine, I promise,” she said, “We’ve given you the most placid one. Stay in one piece, and come back soon for the rest of our visit!” Then Jiriya turned to Oru, who was ready to mount, and threw her arms around him. “Be careful!” she called, as he climbed onto his beast and it rose decorously from its knees. Then they were on their way, Oru, two aides, and an elf, who wondered if she looked as absurdly out of place as she felt. She shrugged to herself. She might as well just acknowledge that being out of place was her place. She had left her parents’ home three months ago, and it would be even longer now before she returned. As always, she missed her parents and grandparents, and she missed also the way she rested in her place there in Tanoeb like a flute rests in its fitted case. But, as always, she felt too the joy of discovery rising in her heart like music with each new step into adventure. Close to the course of the Kaazarid there were scepter trees, then shrubs and grasses, but by the end of the first day’s journey they had descended from Sisoa’s low hills into the heart of the desert. The klaamelehs had kept up their steady, swaying walk as if they could never grow weary, and the travellers

continued through the dusk and into the evening, while the light faded slowly. The day had been parchingly hot, and Svarnil would have gladly drunk twice the water she was given for her share. When they rose before dawn, however, it was cold, and a thin silver shimmer of droplets glittered over everything. Svarnil groaned as she clambered stiffly onto her mount’s patient back. She felt bruised and sore all over from the first day’s ride. Oru reined his klaameleh back until he rode beside her. “Don’t worry,” he said, “You’ll get used to it.” “Well, I haven’t yet.” “It will get easier. But even if it were not easier, it is faster, and we would never be able to carry enough water to get through the desert if we had to walk it.” Svarnil looked at Oru, sitting on his mount as straight and easy as if it were a throne. She lowered her voice so that the two aides, conversing with each other a little way ahead, would not hear, and asked, “Is this the same way you went the other time? When you rode to the Minarian border?” Oru nodded. “Yes.” His black eyes were unreadable as he looked ahead across the brightening landscape. Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, and a small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “It is very strange,” he said. And so they rode south, camping, after five days, at the Shal-Rozhahin, just as the army of the Emperor Re-Madiin had done two hundred years before on its way to battle Minar. There was the scrubland of tulatch trees and thorn bushes that Svarnil had learned about in legend, and in which Oru had received his imperial cylinder seal from the goddess Rozhahin. Oru was unusually silent that night, and Svarnil regarded him curiously. “Did you want to look around, or anything?” she asked with concern.

“No. There will be nothing here,” he replied. But he was wrong. Svarnil woke in the dark that night, before the aides had risen to prepare breakfast or saddle the klaamelehs. She sat up in her blanket and peered around, pushing her loose hair out of her eyes and wondering what had woken her. And then she froze. There, just at the edge of her vision, she saw a darker shape, and the glint of eyes. The creature was still as breathing, and seemed to be staring intently at Oru. For several moments Svarnil sat, watching the dark shadow watch her friend. If it intended to attack, surely it would have done so by now? “Oru,” Svarnil whispered, “Oru!” At the sound of her voice, the shadow’s luminous eyes turned on her, faint full moons in the darkness. Oru also moved, rolling over and answering indistinctly, “Hmm?” “Oru, something is here!” Still half-asleep, his eyes opened and he murmured, “Tibul?” Then abruptly sitting bolt upright he hissed, “Tibul? That’s impossible!” At his sudden movement the creature stepped back, but it did not run away. They stared at each other a long moment, until finally Oru whispered softly, “If Rozhahin sent you, come here.” By now the eastern edge of the sky had begun to grey and Svarnil could make out that the shape that glided to Oru was a desert leopard. Oru put out his hand and the leopard laid its chin in his palm and began to purr. Svarnil could not hear it, for the desert leopards have no voice, but she could see the vibration in Oru’s hand. “Is it… Could it really be Tibul?” she whispered in amazement. Oru laughed softly. “Not Tibul, no.” Then he added, “But I cannot believe it a coincidence that a leopard should come to me, seeming to know me, here at the Shal-Rozhahin.”

When they rode onward in the cool dawn, the vizier’s aides could hardly contain their astonishment at the tawny leopard loping easily beside Oru’s klaameleh. “Well,” he said to the creature, “If you are truly going to be my companion, you will need a name. What shall I call you? Nimasah?” The great cat gazed up at Oru and blinked his golden eyes graciously. Svarnil, watching, laughed aloud. “Oru, you are the stuff of legend still,” she said.

* Sakar Akweka plants some seeds *

As soon as he had returned to K’Ten, Sakar Akweka sent messages around to the other Shikat priests. Within days they had arranged to meet in the chambers of Sakar Sikwan in the Great Nogosh Temple. Sakar Akweka’s temple boasted no chambers like these, with their curtained walls and gilt traceries. Akweka shifted on the cushioned chair where he sat, and wondered how long it would be before he led a temple like this. This was the largest temple in K’Ten and therefore the most influential, and Akweka would be fortunate indeed ever to call himself Sakar of Nogosh, but there were others worth aspiring to. When the room had filled, still he waited deferentially for Sikwan to begin the meeting. This was where he would make an impression on those with power, and if he did everything right, it could be his chance to move into their ranks. Sikwan began the meeting with a prayer, of course. “God of Creation, we give thanks for this news that Sakar Akweka brings, and we pray that we will use this news to protect the righteous believers from heresy. God of Omniscience, we cannot know what the future will bring, and we pray that we will be able to meet whatever comes in obedience to you.” Sikwan was tall and gaunt, but despite his stooped shoulders, it was impossible to meet his sharp eyes without receiving an impression of an iron will. Akweka did not meet his eyes, but remained with his face modestly downcast when the older priest let his gaze scan the company. “As most of you know, Sakar Akweka of the Temple Olabish has called this meeting of the Shikat to bring us news of a challenge we may soon face from the Elaba. He

has come to inform us so that we may decide how best to prepare a response. Sakar Akweka?” Akweka suppressed a smile. How long had he waited for this opportunity? How long had he imagined himself looked to by the powerful? He intended to make the most of this moment. Drawing a deep breath, he let his voice ring out dramatically, “I have recently returned from the very border of Sisoa, at the northernmost bend of the Fulakwe, where I met with a man who is even now concocting a blasphemous hoax with which he hopes to sway the Chebik-lan to his profane will. I come to warn you, so that his wicked lies can be choked off, before the Duties that we teach are shattered and the Vision that we follow is effaced.” Yes, he had their attention now.

CHAPTER 2: Svarnil learns of the Chebik-lan

Chebik said, “I saw that the Divine is throughout creation, in every living thing, in the heart of every person. The Divine is in the heart of every person, but not everything in the heart of a person is divine. That you may recognize the Divine, you may know that, though one, it has Six Aspects. These are Creation, Omnipotence, Omniscience, Wondrousness, Infinitude, and Love. Each of these Aspects of the Divine calls forth in the human heart its Response. To the Divine Creation, the upright heart responds with Gratitude; to Omnipotence, Awe; to Omniscience, Acceptance; to Wondrousness, Joy; to Infinitude, Faithfulness; and to the Divine Love, the human heart responds with human Love. “It is not enough, however, to feel the Response in the heart. To bring about the Vision, to bring the Otherworld into the pattern of the First World, each Response must give rise to its proper action. The heart that knows the Six Aspects will sincerely feel the Six Responses, and the heart that feels the Six Responses sincerely will undertake gladly the Six Duties. Our sacred duty to Creation is Stewardship; to Omnipotence, Worship; to Omniscience, Obedience; to Wondrousness, Celebration; to Infinitude, the worship of no other gods; and to the Divine Love, the duty of the human heart is Love for all creation.”

- from the manuscript “Letter 2” discovered in a cave near the Border Plateau,

corresponding with Book II, stanzas 1-2 of the scriptures

In the dark of that night Svarnil and her companions camped at the base of the rise that marked the southern edge of the desert. The next day they rode up the long, rough slope until they were on the Border Plateau. “Is this where the army of Yuwara Ul Sahd met the Minarian army?” Svarnil asked. Oru answered, “No, that was east, perhaps three days’ march from here, near the Central South fort. According to the emissary from Minar, the site we need to worry about this time is farther south of here, where the Plateau drops back down to the Fulakwe. Not so far from the Third South fort, but Her Majesty hasn’t reopened that one. Two more days should bring us there, I think. Does that sound right, Obmer?” The aide nodded. “I think it might be near the caves in the cliffs there.” “You know this area better than I,” Oru said, “So we shall follow you.” When they finally arrived at the Minarian camp, it was already nearly dusk. There were a few small tents, a roughly built beehive oven of piled stones, a trestle table with a single folding chair, and a fire circle. Four mules were tethered to some trees, grazing on turf which looked rich and lush after the sparse, wiry plants of the desert. Three men had been sitting around the fire circle when the Sisoans arrived, and had leapt to their feet, braced for action. They eyed the leopard warily, although he merely sat down in front of Oru’s klaameleh and began to wash his face. Oru swung himself down from his klaameleh and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I am Oru Hamar-azh, secretary to the vizier of Empress Kahan-Atar of Sisoa and Yuwara Ul Sahd. She has ordered me to come and ask you about what you’ve found here in Sisoan territory.”

One of the Minarians stepped forward, eyebrows raised. “I had no idea Sisoa knew we were here,” he said, holding out his hand in turn. “I am Nulif of the Family Atsu, leader of this research expedition. Come, sit down and share our meal, and I’ll tell you about it.” Although he spoke the common speech, his accent was completely unfamiliar to Svarnil, with a sort of rolling sing-song quite unlike the clipped speech of the Sisoans. Svarnil slid wearily from her saddle, staggering slightly as her feet hit the ground. She stretched gratefully and followed Nulif’s gesture toward the fire circle. While Nulif brought a bowl of water and invited his guests to wash themselves, the other two Minarians hurried to carry some split logs to the fireside until there were seats for everyone. Svarnil looked curiously at the Minarian men. All three of them had their hair tied neatly into short ponytails at the back, and all three had closely trimmed beards, although the beard of the youngest looked soft and sparse. They wore vests and knee-length kilts in bright colors now looking rather dusty. Nulif himself was a young man, with dark hazel eyes which Svarnil thought had an open, earnest look. She found him eyeing her as curiously as she looked at him, and he said, “Perhaps we should start with complete introductions. As I said, I am Nulif. I am a researcher for the Great Collection in K’Ten.” He paused. “Have you heard of that?” When Svarnil and the Sisoans nodded, he continued, “Several weeks ago I was given a manuscript by a trader. An incredible manuscript. I’ll tell you more about it later, but for now let me just say that the Head Librarians of the Great Collection sent me here, to the area where the manuscript had been found, to look for others. These gentlemen - Bolekwa…” The grey-haired man inclined his head. “… and Jadogwa…” The younger one nodded curtly. “Are my fellow researchers on

this expedition. And now would you tell us more about yourselves?” Oru introduced his two aides briefly, then smiled at Svarnil. “I’ll let you introduce yourself,” he said to her. “I am Svarnil of the Tungoldroleth, of the Fellowship of Bards. I too am a researcher, in a way, and Oru was kind enough to let me accompany him, although I have no connection with Sisoa or her queen, because I was curious to learn what you might have discovered. That is my calling as a bard, to discover all that I can about the history of the Otherworld. Can you explain what you’ve found?” Nulif’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “It’s too dark to show you tonight,” he said, “You must see it tomorrow to do it justice. It is simply incredible! But I suppose you won’t understand why this is so important to us. What do you know about the Chebik-lan?” “For myself, not much,” answered Oru, and Svarnil and one of the aides also shook their heads. Obmer, Oru’s other aide, answered, “I have family from K’Ten, but please go ahead and explain for the others.” “Very well,” said Nulif with a twinkle in his eye, “Tonight’s lesson will be on Minarian religion. “The Minarians are Seapeople, but the race is closely related to the Sandpeople of Sisoa, as well as the Nomadic peoples of the desert. Originally we shared many of the same gods, albeit under different names. However, about five hundred years ago, the great prophet Chebik was given a vision of the universe that changed the Minarian religion entirely. You see, in his vision he was shown that the Divine is only one, although we can think of it as having Six Aspects. Most importantly, Chebik saw that the First World is the world as the one Divine intended it to be, while the Otherworld is the world as mortals have made it. The Chebik-lan, the followers of

Chebik, strive by living their lives according to the Six Duties to transform the Otherworld into the First World of God’s intention.” Svarnil listened closely, storing this information in her memory as she heard it. “Do you understand so far? Good. But…” Here Nulif held up a finger as if he were admonishing a class, “It is not so simple, for there is more than one way to interpret the scriptures of Chebik. First there are the Bachut. They have not really entirely given up the ways of the old religion. They have reinterpreted six of the primary ancient gods by giving them the names of the Six Aspects, but their worship is more closely related to the ways of Sisoa. Then there are the Shikat.” Nulif’s mild face twisted a little as he continued, “Their name means ‘the Righteous.’ They believe that the best way to respond to the Divine is through meticulously following all the rules that have been listed in the scriptures. The Six Duties each have many many rules and explanations, so that following them all requires a great deal of concentration. It helps to have a great deal of money, too. Thirdly, there are the Elaba. They are less literal in their interpretations of the rules of behavior. They believe that following the Six Duties in their broader sense is a matter of trying to weigh the best actions in any given situation, as opposed to a rote following of words without thought or consideration of the consequences. They place more emphasis on trying to discern the pattern of the First World themselves, and less emphasis on following to the letter the rules listed in the scriptures.” Svarnil could see the Minarian smile wryly in the firelight, although the dusk was now falling swiftly. “I try to be fair, but perhaps you can guess what I believe. I am Elaba, myself. Anyway, the manuscripts we’ve found seem to be early Chebik-lan scriptures, so you can imagine why this is exciting to us.”

As Nulif spoke, Obmer had been having increasing difficulty concealing his yawns. Now the Minarian said, “Perhaps that’s enough for tonight. You must be tired, and it will soon be too dark to set up tents. Where will you sleep?” Oru answered, “Any spot you recommend will suffice.” Then Nulif’s glance fell again on Svarnil and his eyes widened in concern. “Oh, Madam, we have made no accommodation for hosting a lady! Perhaps we can move our tents away, to leave you a private space by the fire.” “That will not be necessary,” Svarnil insisted firmly. “I am quite accustomed to sleeping anywhere.” The Minarians were all looking at her now with expressions that Svarnil in her years of travel had learned to recognize. She sighed and said patiently, “There will be no impropriety, I promise.” At this Nulif blushed awkwardly and protested, “I assure you, I had no intention of implying…” “Of course not,” said Svarnil. She chose a site a little apart from the men, and began to set up her small shelter.

* Sakar Akweka uses his influence *

Everything was turning out just as Akweka wished. Oh, some of the priests had counselled caution, and Sakar Sikwan himself had advised that they “must not proceed beyond their discernment of the Divine intention in this case.” But they had all accepted Akweka’s information without question. They had agreed to ask the Merchants’ Council to intervene. They had looked to Akweka to lead them in this matter. Sikwan had obtained for Akweka an interview with the undersecretary of Merchant General Hadash himself. It felt good to have influential people behind him. He would never have been sitting here in the offices of the Merchants’ Council if he had come as mere Sakar Akweka of the Temple Olabish. As head of a Shikat coalition to oppose heresy, however, with the Great Nogosh Temple among those he represented, he had suddenly become a very important man. A curtain was pulled aside and Akweka rose and followed the undersecretary into the inner office. “Good morning, Sakar Akweka. I understand that the Shikat leadership have a concern about the activity of some Minarians near the Border Plateau. Sakar Sikwan tells me you are the one to speak for the Shikat. How can the Merchant’s Council work with you?”

CHAPTER 3: Svarnil begins a new quest

Here are written the words of Chebik, describing his vision of the First World and the Divine, just as he spoke them to me, Makosh, and my brothers and sisters. I have added nothing and subtracted nothing. Chebik said, “I saw the Otherworld spread around me like a vast carpet reaching to the horizon in all directions, yet I could see each thread of the carpet as sharply as the others, whether near or far. I saw the ocean as if to count its waves, each forest in all its trees, each mountain in all its rock and boulders. I felt the presence of every toiling ant and every soaring falcon. I saw all the nations worked over the earth, those I had known, and those beyond what I had ever imagined, each peopled with its needs and desires, so that I saw, too, the tides of conflict from the lone man betraying his brother to the mighty army marching on its neighboring nation. I felt the agony of all the many myriad hearts in their hunger and despair, their passion and need, so that I cried out to the old gods to heal the soul of the Otherworld or to shatter this vision from before my eyes.”

- from the Scripture of Chebik manuscript discovered in a cave near the Border Plateau, Book I, stanzas 1 – 2

The Great Collection’s research expedition had chosen for their campsite a pleasant spot. It was at the base of the low yellow cliffs that fell from the Border Plateau toward the northern Fulakwe plain. A rill gurgled past the tents on its way to the Fulakwe, and the ground was clothed in grass and

flowers, with trees dotted around. The night had not been as cold here as in the desert, and Svarnil woke feeling fresh and well-rested. Most of the others were already awake and preparing their breakfasts. It was a silent meal, with only a few mumbled “Good mornings” to interrupt the cheerful birdsong all around them. As soon as they had finished, however, Nulif wiped his hands thoroughly on a clean cloth and declared, “Now let me show you what we’ve found!” Svarnil and the Sisoans followed the librarian to the trestle table beside the larger tent. He went inside the tent and emerged a moment later with three books in his hands. One was small and made of cream-colored parchment, with the edges a little torn. Second was a thin stack of brittle parchment sheets in a leather folder. The third book was new, its binding of clean red leather with gold letters stamped across the front. The visitors pressed closer around the table, leaning in to see the thin cream-colored book, which Nulif took first. “Look!” he exclaimed reverently, opening it gently. Oru frowned as he began to read, while there was a gasp from his aide Obmer. Nulif smiled at him. “You see what I mean?” he asked, with the air of a craftsman showing off his finest work. “What does it say?” asked Svarnil. “I’m sorry,” Nulif said, lifting the book closer to her. “No,” she said apologetically, “I mean that I can’t read.” The researcher looked taken aback, but he recovered himself quickly. “Forgive me. Let me tell you. This first section says Here are written the words of Chebik, describing his vision of the First World and the Divine, just as he spoke them to me, Makosh, and my brothers and sisters. I have added nothing and subtracted nothing.”

“And you believe this to be genuine? From the time of Chebik himself? That is a treasure indeed.” “Yes. I do believe it is the original writing of Makosh, for several reasons. But I can see you do not yet appreciate its real significance. Look at this!” He now pulled toward him the red-bound book. When he opened it, he made a gesture holding it out to Svarnil, before catching himself and hastily beginning to read it aloud for her. “Here are written the words of Chebik, describing his vision of the First World and the Divine, just as he spoke them to me, Makosh, and my brothers. All who doubt this are doomed.” He looked up at her. “What book is that, then?” she asked. “This is the scriptures. The scriptures as they are taught in every temple in Minar. The scriptures as we have always been told the Divine intended. But they are not the same, did you notice?” Svarnil nodded slowly. “I noticed. And you believe your find here casts doubt on the authenticity of that official scripture?” “That is what I believe.” Oru said thoughtfully, “Last night you mentioned the three divisions among the Chebik-lan. What will this mean to each of them?” “I think that most of the differences among the two versions will be welcome to the Elaba. They will serve to confirm what most of us already believe. I am not sure exactly what it will mean to the Bachut. Jadogwa, what do you think? Jadogwa is Bachut. He’s from N’Juma.” The young man looked awkward but said, “We never believed the scripture was the last message from God. The Third Aspect gives new messages to anyone who asks. Why not new scripture, too?” He shrugged. “And the Shikat?” Oru asked.

“Ah, the Shikat…” Nulif smiled almost mischievously. “Oh, they will not care for this at all!” Oru repeated, “’Will not?’ They already know about it, surely?” “Well, there was a priest who arrived here with his secretary not long after I did. They didn’t seem very enthusiastic about what we were finding, so I suppose they must have been Shikat. I forgot about them.” “I don’t think they forgot about you. Apparently they went straight back to K’Ten and asked the government to arrest you and destroy your work!” “What?” cried Nulif, aghast. “The Merchants’ Council decided that since you are actually on Sisoan soil now, sending soldiers after you might upset the Empress Kahan-Atar. So they sent an emissary to Sisoa asking us to destroy you, or to give them permission to do it themselves.” “So that’s how you knew about our work!” he exclaimed. Then, after an awkward pause, he asked quietly, “And are you going to destroy us now?” “I don’t think so,” Oru replied levelly, “But I would like to have proof that your research here is genuine. If this is a hoax you’ve devised to make trouble among your own people, you can be sure that Sisoa will have no part in it. And the Empress does not tolerate those who try to make a fool of her.” “No, no hoax,” Nulif said earnestly, but he shook his head and muttered, “I cannot believe they would try to suppress this! That they would really try to destroy what might be the writing of Makosh himself! The truest, closest thing to Chebik and the Divine!” Bolekwa, the older Minarian assistant, said harshly, “Believe it, Nulif. For myself, I believe there is nothing they would not do to hold onto power now, when they’re gaining such influence in the

Merchants’ Council. Show Master Oru these.” He handed Nulif the leather folder. Nulif pulled himself together, and took the folder. “First, perhaps you could tell them our reasons for believing that these documents are genuine.” He turned to the Sisoans and explained, “Bolekwa is one of the Great Collection’s experts on ancient documents.” Bolekwa said, “Well, the first piece of evidence is the location where the manuscript was found. It took us quite a while before we found the place. According to the trader who brought it to Nulif, a herdsman had found it, so we began by interviewing the herdsmen on the Fulakwe Plain and the Border Plateau. It was only a few weeks ago that we found the man who had discovered it. He brought us to the spot, a cave, up in the cliff there.” Bolekwa pointed northeast toward the low cliffs. “He said he had slipped on the edge of the cliff and lost his clog over the side. In scrambling down to fetch it he found the cave, and inside an earthenware coffer, which he broke open. He was disappointed that he had found no gold or jewels, and gave the book to the next trader he saw for a couple of coppers. He brought us to the remains of the coffer, with its corner smashed off, and the shards scattered all over the cave floor. We brought it back here. It’s in the tent. It certainly looks like the style of pottery made during the period of Chebik’s life. It also had a seal set around the edge of the lid, which has the shape of a hand and the word Makosh carved in the script of the time. As for the manuscript itself, the parchment, the ink, and the writing are all consistent with the correct time period. For example, the parchment has been soaked with vegetable acid, as we can tell from the residue left on the pages, whereas modern parchment is prepared with lime. The ink is especially significant, I think. It is the old kind of ink made from mela nuts. They come from a

jungle vine, but as the jungle has been cut ever farther back from K’Ten they have become increasingly scarce. As far as I know it’s been several generations since mela ink has been produced.” Bolekwa ticked off the points on his fingers as he spoke, while Nulif nodded. Nulif explained, “We began to search some of the other caves in the hope of finding more. We found one other coffer, and in it, these documents.” He opened the folder. “This one, for example, is addressed from Makosh to one of the other Hands of Chebik. It discusses a disagreement with another follower, who wants to codify the Six Duties, and list out specific rules for each one.” He looked around triumphantly at his audience. “Do you see the significance of that? It means all those laws the Shikat depend on were never part of Chebik’s original vision! That they were added later by followers who were at odds with the Hands of Chebik!” “What are the Hands of Chebik?” asked Svarnil. “I’m sorry. They were ten men whom Chebik chose to be in charge of carrying on his work. They were to be the first teachers when he was gone,” Nulif explained. Oru shook his head. “Sir, you are stirring up a hornet’s nest! For myself I am well satisfied that Sisoa can have no objection to your work here. I intend to return to Sisoa and recommend to the vizier that we offer you an official welcome to pursue your research in the Territory of Yuwara Ul Sahd. But…” Oru held up his hand warningly as Nulif began to thank him, “Please let me remind you of our reason for coming here in the first place. There are those in your government who want this work destroyed, and I doubt they will rest until they get their way. I very much hope that you will think of some precautions you can take for yourself. Make

copies of these documents as soon as possible. Make sure that others know about your discoveries. Do not allow yourself to be the only obstacle in the path of the Shikat.” Once again Nulif looked rather taken aback by these warnings, but Bolekwa nodded grimly. Oru concluded, “With your permission, we will stay through tonight, and tomorrow morning we will start back to Sisoa.” “Yes, of course!” answered Nulif, gathering his precious documents. Svarnil said tentatively, “Master Nulif, I wonder whether I might stay on a little longer with your research expedition. I would be happy to assist you in any way I can, of course, and I am curious to learn more about the history of Chebik and his followers.” Nulif stared at her. After a long pause he said gently, “We did not come provided for another man, much less a lady, and I don’t see what help you could be when you can’t even read. We are all trained researchers for the Great Collection.” Svarnil had not considered at first how audacious her request had been. Perhaps it was foolish even to ask these men to accept someone whom they must consider a silly interference at best, and possibly a meddlesome danger. Yet still she felt pulled to this quest, which offerred simultaneously the chance to learn an ancient history and to watch new revelation change a nation. Taking courage from the leading she felt within her, she persisted, “You needn’t be concerned about provisions. I’m accustomed to travelling on my own and I have everything I need for myself. I can help with fishing, or gathering food for the group. I, too, have served my apprenticeship in collecting history. And as for reading and writing, I would be pleased if one of you could teach me. In return, perhaps you would like to hear some of the legends I know of other lands, to add to the Great Collection.”

Oru, who had been listening to this exchange, added, “Believe me, Master Nulif, Svarnil is a Great Collection of lore in her own right! I can vouch for it that she would not be a burden to you.” “Very well,” the Minarian agreed finally. Svarnil wondered whether he had accepted her only out of fear of offending Yuwara Ul Sahd. Just then, Oru’s leopard Nimasah came padding toward them. To Svarnil’s surprise, however, he walked past Oru, merely brushing against his thigh as he passed. It was to the elf that he came. He settled down on his haunches at Svarnil’s feet, and lay something down softly between his front paws. Then he looked up at the elf solemnly. “Have you been hunting, Nimasah?” asked Svarnil. The tawny cat nudged the thing gently with his nose as if pushing it toward Svarnil. It looked like a bundle of wilted leaves, and Svarnil crouched down to look. “What have you brought me?” She reached out gingerly to pick up the thing, and the leopard did not oppose her, but continued to stare at her with round golden eyes. “Oh!” exclaimed Svarnil suddenly. It was not a bundle of leaves at all, but a strange animal. Svarnil knew it was alive because she could feel its small, frightened heartbeat thrumming against her fingers. It was the size of a squirrel, and what the elf had thought were leaves were soft leathery wings, like a large bat’s, but dull green. The creature lay in Svarnil’s two palms with its wings huddled around it, so that at first only the top of its head and the tips of its curled toes showed. But after a while a wing twitched and a round emerald eye peeked out. “Don’t be afraid, little one,” Svarnil crooned, “Did Nimasah hurt you?” The leopard slumped his chin down on his paws and looked offended. The green creature opened its wings a little further. Svarnil could now see that the rest of its body was covered in short, soft silvery fur,

tinged with pale green the color of lichen. Its head was round, with round ears on either side and round eyes above its flat round nose. The wings had little three-fingered monkey hands at the second joint. It gazed about warily, and now Oru and Nulif leaned in close to see what Svarnil held. “Goodness!” exclaimed Nulif, “It’s a leaf baby!” “What is it?” asked Svarnil. “A leaf baby! They are also called lylits. The Bachut think they’re sacred to the oracle they call the Third Aspect. But they don’t come from here. They live deep in the jungle near the Afula. I wonder how this one could have gotten here.” Suddenly the creature stretched out its green-winged arms and yawned, revealing tiny pointed teeth and a narrow fluffy tail curled up as tightly as a snail. Then it rubbed one ear and looked around alertly. It seemed to Svarnil that the wings, which had been dull, were now a green much deeper and richer. She found herself picturing the jungle she had never seen. Nimasah sat up and looked intently at the leaf baby. When he leaned toward the creature, Svarnil instinctively began to pull it away protectively, but the lylit sat straight and leaned back toward the leopard. The two rubbed noses, tiny grey furry nose against large tawny moist one, then the leopard turned away and sauntered over to Oru, where he bumped his head against his thigh and purred silently. “What was that all about?” asked Svarnil. “I have no idea,” answered Oru, “But I think you are meant to have this companion as certainly as I am meant to have Tibul’s grandson here.” “Oh! Do you think so? Then it will need a name. How can I tell whether it’s a boy or a girl?” Nulif laughed and called, “Jadogwa, come here! Do you know about leaf babies? How can we tell if this one is male or female?”

The young assistant came over and glanced at the animal Svarnil held toward him. “Female,” he said, “Males have greener tails. Never saw one around here before.” He shot Svarnil a sharp look, then returned to the fire where he had been preparing lunch. “Well, then, little sister,” said Svarnil, “What is your name?” Oddly, Svarnil found herself picturing the delicate green fiddlehead of a fern just starting to unfurl. “Maybe your name should be fern frond. May I call you Fethilis? It is the Tungoldroleth word for a fern frond, but I trust a Minarian creature won’t mind.” The silvery-green animal climbed quite nimbly up Svarnil’s arm to her shoulder and sat there, holding onto the cloth of her tunic with both hands and toes. Her wings were now almost as silvery as her fur, as if they had borrowed some of the grey of the elf’s tunic. “It looks like she’s happy with that,” said Nulif. “Even in the jungle where they usually live, they are quite shy. The Bachut consider it an excellent omen when a leaf baby nests around a new couple’s house. I don’t set much store by omens, but I think I shall take this to mean that it will be a good thing to have you join our research team.” For the first time he smiled warmly at the elf. “Lunch!” called Jadogwa from the fire circle.

* Sakar Akweka takes matters into his own hands *

Sakar Akweka turned back and forth in front of his small mirror, trying to get a complete view of his new vest. It was the finest he had ever bought, but, he thought as he ran his fingers across the intricate beadwork, now that he was speaking with the rich and powerful of K’Ten, he could no longer afford to look like nothing more than the priest of a minor temple. He needed to look as influential as he would surely soon be. Just then Akweka’s secretary returned from delivering a message. As soon as he had taken his customary seat, Akweka began, “Merchant General Hadash says he will not send soldiers into Sisoan land without permission. Do you think Sisoa will grant it?” The priest’s secretary paused. “Empress Kahan-Atar is jealous of her prerogatives. I am by no means certain that she will aid us in this.” “Then we shall have to deal with it ourselves. Whom do we know who might have some contacts in the northern Fulakwe region?” Slowly the secretary said, “It was one of Nurula’s traders who brought the original manuscript to the librarian at the Great Collection. He’s agreed that if he obtains any more he will bring them straight to us. Now, I suspect that if we suggested we were willing to pay more for the original than the Great Collection did, he might find that one of his traders had come into possession of it again.” Akweka smiled. “Ah, yes. Would you please contact Master Nurula and make that suggestion to him?”

CHAPTER 4: Svarnil learns to read The peaceful people had no wish to leave their beautiful jungle, so it was not hard for them to comply with their leader’s bidding. One day, however, a young woman wandered far from her companions, gathering herbs, and failed to notice that she had neared the border of her people’s refuge. Singing as she worked, her clear voice reached the ears of a hunting party at the jungle’s edge. The men crashed violently into the undergrowth to find the singer, and suddenly the gentle woman found herself surrounded by people unlike any she had ever seen. They were covered in filth, and bloody carcasses of dead animals swung from their backs. Their brutish faces scowled and leered, and the maiden was horrified not only at their appearance, but also by their cruel, harsh voices. They seized her and would have dragged her back to their camp, except that they had no sooner found a thing of beauty than they began to argue over it. As the men fell to fighting each other, the gentle woman slipped away in terror and fled like a deer to her own peaceful haven.

- from The Gentle People, An Ancient Tale of the Indigenous Jungle Tribes

The next morning Oru and his assistants mounted their klaamelehs, said their farewells, and headed north again. They brought Svarnil’s mount with them, as it had been rented and must be returned along with the other beasts.

“Come back through Sisoa and complete your visit with us before you go anywhere else,” Oru called. Svarnil waved. “Tell Jiriya I’m very sorry to have cut short our visit. But I will write her a real letter as soon as I learn how!” “And Svarnil,” Oru added, “Be careful. Whatever danger these Minarians face, you face, too. And take care of that lylit. She’s a gift from Rozhahin.” Svarnil nodded. “I will, Oru. I will!” She watched her friend and companions start up the steep path that would bring them onto the Border Plateau. Then she asked the man beside her, “What do the Chebik-lan believe of Rozhahin?” Nulif replied, “The Shikat and Elaba do not believe in the old gods and goddesses. But the Bachut would say that Rozhahin, which is the Sisoan name for Roshakwi, is that part of the Divine that Chebik revealed as the First Aspect.” “What is the First Aspect?” “Creation.” After a pause he asked, “Do the elves believe in the old gods?” “Not those, no. We believe in a Divine power that is universal, through everything, and part of all Creation.” Nulif nodded slowly. “I will be interested to hear what you think when you learn about Chebik’s vision. Are you ready to begin?” “Yes, of course!” “Come over to the table and I’ll show you the alphabet.” Over the next few days the research expedition settled into a pattern. In the mornings Bolekwa and Jadogwa continued to search the cliffs for any more ancient artifacts, while Nulif studied the manuscripts they had found, and began to copy them as Oru had recommended. Svarnil gathered fish and foods,

accompanied by the lylit. In the afternoons Nulif gave her lessons. In the evenings they shared tales, and Svarnil played her harp. At first the Minarians seemed awkward around the elf, unsure exactly how to treat her or what her role would be. It was not long, however, before she began to seem part of the team, and her presence was accepted, and even welcomed. It was the legends she sang in the evenings that pleased them first, but soon Nulif was so impressed with Svarnil’s progress in her reading and writing that he set her to copying out one of the letters that had been found. Svarnil did not always understand what she wrote, but she was careful to copy each character accurately, and Nulif kept a close eye on her work. Fethilis, too, kept a close eye on Svarnil. At dawn and dusk she flitted through the twilight hunting moths and other insects, her wings dark grey, but during the day she often perched in the branches above the table where Svarnil worked, or sat on the elf’s shoulder, grooming herself or dozing peacefully. Sometimes when Fethilis was nearby Svarnil would find herself picturing the jungle again, or seeming to see what was happening at the fire or the tents behind her. Then she would raise her hand absently and stroke the lylit’s velvety head as she dipped her pen in the ink again and continued her work. Slowly as the days passed the black marks on the parchment began to mean sounds, and the patterns of sounds began to mean words. There were words that Svarnil began to know as one knows a friend, recognizing them without effort or thought. One afternoon she read out a whole page from the scripture, so that all the words flowed in their sentences just as they were supposed to. To her astonishment, Nulif threw his arms around her, exclaiming, “Perfect!”

Jadogwa, who was nearby, stared as if shocked, and Nulif let go, rather flushed. “I do apologize, Madam Svarnil,” he said, but his eyes still twinkled. “You are such a quick learner and I am very proud of your progress. Most impressive! Let’s work more now with writing your own words.” So Svarnil began her promised letter to Jiriya. Slowly and laboriously she worked out what letters she would need to use to form the words she wanted to write.

Greetings to my sister Jiriya (and brother Oru). I am learning so much here. Nulif and the others are very kind. Nulif is helping me spell these words. I hope Oru has told you about the manuscripts and my lylit, because I could never write that much.

Svarnil remembered the time in the Thurl Pits when she had told Jiriya that writing was magic. As she saw the thoughts from inside her own mind transformed into black marks on paper that would carry them far across the desert and speak them to her distant friends, it seemed to her more magical than ever. And was it not a miraculous magic that brought the words of Chebik to his followers nearly five hundred years after his death? Of course, it now appeared that someone had tampered with the magic, twisting it so that the words that travelled through the years were warped and sent awry, meaning something different now from the vision that Chebik had tried to teach. As Nulif explained it, the prophet had been dead hardly ten years, sacrificed to the pagan god of death by those who saw his message as an attack on the old gods, when his followers were already disagreeing amongst themselves, arguing over his message and the best way to teach it. Makosh had come here, to the northernmost bow of the River Fulakwe, when this land was still Minarian, and founded a school. Here he sought to put down an anchor, where the

true teachings of Chebik could remain untwisted by the politics and personalities of K’Ten. Here he wrote letters to the Hands who remained in K’Ten, offering them reassurance and reminders when they faced discouragement. Nulif and his research expedition had found the remains of huts built under the cliff, potsherds and cooking fires, where Makosh and the Hands of Chebik had tried to maintain the true vision of the prophet. Yet somehow it had failed. Other Chebik-lan, with other interpretations, had gained influence, had determined the form of the scriptures, and had erased even the memory of the disagreements, until now. It was strange, thought Svarnil. Strange how this magic called writing could capture thoughts with perfect accuracy, and yet could just as easily turn the words around until they meant the opposite. “Just like the legends I learned from Venn,” she thought, “I must never forget that mortals can err. But nor must I forget that errors can be rectified.” Her thoughts were interrupted by Bolekwa plunging suddenly into the camp and shouting angrily, “Just look at this!” He emptied his sack onto the table, and dust rose as shards of clay tumbled onto the board. Svarnil joined the others to see what Bolekwa had found. As far as Svarnil could tell, it was a shattered clay pot or coffer. “Someone has been digging in the caves,” Bolekwa said, “Recently. The dirt is freshly disturbed, and it looked as if in digging through one of the entrances, they chopped right through this with the pick.” “Another coffer!” said Nulif. He picked up a small shard. “And look, the same seal pressed around the lid. This was one of Makosh’s. Was there any sign of manuscripts?” “There were manuscripts all right,” answered the older researcher grimly. He unfolded another cloth

and revealed a small heap of parchment fragments. Most were little more than flakes, a few were as large as Svarnil’s palm, but all were broken and dirty. “Whoever was searching for them destroyed them,” Bolekwa said, “If any pieces of parchment remained whole, or large enough to be of value, they are gone now. The rest were left there, trash.” Nulif looked solemnly at his two assistants. “Then we must redouble our efforts to find what remains before others do. Bolekwa, could you tell who had done this, or where they came from?” Bolekwa shook his head. “I only wonder whether they are still around.” It was the very next morning that Bolekwa got his answer. The three men had all gone to the cliffs at first light, determined to search every last hole and crevice. Svarnil had been left at the campsite to continue with her copying work. Fethilis, the lylit, had been sitting on a nearby branch grooming herself, when she suddenly cocked her head, her large round ears stiffening. Svarnil paid little attention when the lylit abruptly took off and swooped toward a thicket behind the tent, but when she returned, Svarnil turned to look. A picture had flashed into her mind. She imagined a man creeping up to the tent under cover of bushes, and lifting the edge of the canvas. “Who’s there?” she called out loudly. The campsite seemed completely still, but Fethilis was staring intensely at Svarnil, and when the elf met her emerald gaze, the picture returned to her mind with fresh clarity. Swiftly Svarnil swept the precious manuscripts back into the small wooden trunk where they were stored. She turned the key and put it in her pocket, then hesitated. After a moment’s thought, she carried the trunk behind her own smaller tent and hid it in a thick bush. “Keep watch, Fethilis!” she told the lylit. The small creature must have understood, because she

landed on the chest and laid her wings across it, as if she would further camouflage the wood. Her wings were now as streaky as the stems of the bush, and Svarnil nodded approvingly. Quickly Svarnil returned to the large tent, paused an instant to decide which way to go, and then ran around to the bushes at the back. As she came around the corner of the tent, someone sprang out of the thicket and sprinted away. Before Svarnil could do more than shout, “Stop!” Jadogwa came pelting down from the cliffside and after the intruder, a drawn knife in his hand. Nulif came rushing after him, but turned immediately to the tent. “Where are the manuscripts?” he wailed, “The trunk is gone!” “No it isn’t,” Svarnil hastened to assure him. She retrieved it from its hiding place, and handed it to Nulif, while Fethilis came to perch on her shoulder. Not until he had unlocked it and checked inside did he give a sigh of relief. Just then Bolekwa arrived, panting, from the cliff, and Jadogwa returned empty-handed from his chase. “Couldn’t catch him,” he said, “Anything gone?” “The scriptures are safe anyway,” answered Nulif, “But what happened?” Svarnil explained what she had seen, and Nulif nodded. “We heard you call ‘Who’s there,’ and Jadogwa ran back as fast as he could. Thank goodness you had your wits about you, Svarnil.” “But now what?” said Bolekwa, “Remember what the Sisoan emissary said. We’ve got to get these manuscripts to a safe place, and we’ve got to share their words with as many people as we can, as soon as we can, before they can be destroyed.” Nulif rubbed a hand over his face. Finally he said, “You are right. We need to get the manuscripts to K’Ten. Let’s spend one more day searching, just

in case there is anything else here, then head back to K’Ten.” Bolekwa and Jadogwa returned to their search, while Nulif stayed behind to satisfy himself that the trunk was well-hidden again. “I don’t like leaving you alone at the campsite when that intruder might come back,” he said to Svarnil. “I’ll be fine,” Svarnil assured him. “Fethilis will keep a look-out with me, and if there’s any hint of him I’ll yell. We already know he would rather run away than fight.” Nulif nodded, but paused a moment longer, looking at Svarnil seriously. He said, “And when we go to K’Ten, what will you do?” Svarnil searched his eyes, wondering whether this was a dismissal. She could return to Sisoa, of course, but would it be too bold to ask if she might accompany the research expedition further? Then Nulif said awkwardly, “We would be happy to have you join us in K’Ten. I would love to show you the Great Collection. If you are interested, I mean.” Svarnil smiled. “I would very much like to see K’Ten with you,” she answered.

* Sakar Akweka tries again *

Akweka chewed his fingernail as he read through the message that had just been delivered. When he finished, he slammed his fist on the table and swore. “Nurula’s trader could have ruined everything!” he cried, waving the paper at his secretary, “He was seen in the campsite! Now the Elaba will guard the manuscript even more closely. And Nurula says he won’t try again. He doesn’t want to risk his man being recognized and traced back to him. So now what?” The secretary raised his eyebrows. Was his master overset by such a small setback? Seeing his secretary’s look, Akweka pulled himself together. “It is unfortunate,” he said, “But if the manuscripts cannot be kept out of Minaria, they must not enter K’Ten.” “Could he not be way-laid?” the secretary suggested, but after some thought Akweka shook his head. “I think it would be best if the manuscripts are confiscated with official sanction. If they are stolen he will tell his story in the court. And to attempt to prevent any of them from talking at all could prove… messy.” “Very well,” said his secretary, “I shall speak with your contacts in the command of the Guard. What reason shall we give for the confiscation?” The priest put his fingernail to his mouth again and began to chew thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “Tell the commanders the documents may be seditious materials, and to be in possession of them is a crime.” Then he added, “Best not to mention it has anything to do with religion. We have no way of knowing which of the guards might be sympathetic to the Elaba.”

CHAPTER 5: Svarnil travels to K’Ten “But I saw then that there was another layer I had not seen at first, like another carpet lying over the first, but transparent or insubstantial. This was the First World, not elsewhere, not otherwhen, not larger or smaller, but laid here and now over the entire Otherworld as a possibility to be sought. I saw that the First World was simply the Divine intention for the World, while the Otherworld was what mortals had made of it. It was full of wonder, and woven of glory, and joy was across it all. And still I was filled with agony and despair, seeing how perfect was the First World hovering just within the Otherworld, and yet so vastly different. “Again I cried out to the old gods, but there was no answer, until the unity of the First World was the answer. I knew then that the old gods were part of the Otherworld, creations of humans to answer their own desires, but no part of the First World. The Divine that had created the First World and all that was in it, and created indeed the very mortal creatures who had turned that Divine Intention into the Otherworld we know now, is a spirit of unity, indivisible into gods or deities of separate intentions. The World was created by one Divine spirit with one Divine intention.”

- from the Scripture of Chebik manuscript discovered in a cave near the Border Plateau, Book I, stanzas 3 – 4

Jadogwa rearranged the expedition’s supplies so that Svarnil could ride their fourth mule. Perhaps it

was just that now she was a little closer to the ground, but she found it much less unpleasant on the mule than it had been on a klaameleh. They followed the Fulakwe until, on the fifth day from their camp, Svarnil and the three Minarians reached N’Ful. N’Ful is a large trading post in the Fulakwe’s sharp elbow. The next town to the north is in Sisoan territory. To the south the Fulakwe sweeps to K’Ten. Here Svarnil posted the finished letter she had written to Jiriya. The next morning they took passage on one of the barges that are constantly plying the southern stretch of the Fulakwe. The men of the research expedition had now put on hose beneath their kilts, and under their vests they wore shirts with loose sleeves gathered at the wrists. When Nulif saw Svarnil looking at them, he said, “We meant no disrespect to you, of course, Svarnil, but near the desert, away from polite society, we had not bothered to dress properly. Now that we are returning among people, we can no longer go around half-dressed.” He cast an involuntary glance at Svarnil’s clothing, but said nothing about it. Svarnil had seen Minarian women for the first time here in N’Ful. They wore long skirts with multiple flounces, and full-sleeved shirts under stiff vests. Svarnil realized that her own tunic and leggings must look very strange to the people here. The barge moved at the pace of the mules that guided it from the shore, for the current here was unhurried. To their starboard slid the bank, hot and lush with rice paddies. To the port smaller, oared boats passed them going upstream and down. When night came the passengers came ashore and camped. In addition to Svarnil and her companions, there were perhaps ten or twelve others. About noon on the second day Nulif touched Svarnil’s arm and led her to the port side. “Look,” he said, pointing across the green plain.

At first Svarnil thought she saw a great ochre cliff across the slanting landscape. Then she realized this was the wall of K’Ten. “We’ll be to the Great Gate before suppertime,” Nulif said with a smile. Then Bolekwa, who was standing beside them, suddenly frowned. “Have you considered what may happen at the Great Gate?” he demanded, “If someone with influence in the Merchants’ Council wants to stop you from bringing the manuscripts into the city, how easy would it be to pull you aside at the Gate and confiscate them.” Nulif turned to his assistant in consternation. “You’re right. I would not have believed it possible but…” “But apparently they already tried to have Sisoa stop us,” Bolekwa finished for him. “Right. Svarnil, would you carry in the trunk? The Merchants’ Council probably don’t know you joined our expedition, so they won’t think to stop you.” “Yes, of course I will, if you want,” Svarnil answered, “But what if the intruder at the campsite told someone about me?” “I think we shall have to risk it. I am hoping the intruder was merely a thief, but if not…” He shrugged. “Do you have any other ideas?” Svarnil shook her head. “So, you take the trunk into your pack now, and from here on we had better act as if we are strangers. We will let you go through the Gate first, so that if you should run into difficulties I can come forward and help. If you get through without trouble, go straight on until you reach the public well and wait for me there.” For the rest of the afternoon, therefore, Svarnil pretended to be on her own. Fethilis perched on her shoulder, and watched with her from the side of the barge. As they came ever nearer to K’Ten, the huge

wall loomed larger and larger. The road, which had been out of sight while the curve of the river brought them away from it, now came back into view on the starboard side. Svarnil watched the carts and caravans moving steadily to and from K’Ten, where one wide gate gaped in the colossal wall. Svarnil gazed ahead to where those travellers entering the gate before them were dwarfed by the massive square towers on each side. There was another opening in the wall where the river entered the city. Most of the river flowed through an enormous metal grate with bars set too close to allow a human to squeeze between. A smaller gate within this grate was open, allowing the boats to go in and out of K’Ten under the watchful eyes of guards who sat on platforms just inside. The barge however, pulled up to a dock outside the wall and the passengers disembarked. Svarnil collected her mule from the crewman who had led it ashore, and walked toward the Great Gate, Fethilis fluttering beside her. A line of travellers had formed by the guard station, and when Svarnil’s turn came, the guard looked her over curiously. “Name?” he demanded. “Svarnil of Tanoeb,” the elf answered. “Purpose in K’Ten?” “Researching legends. I am a bard.” “Do you swear to abide by the laws of K’Ten during your stay here?” Svarnil raised her eyebrows. “Of course I will, to the best of my knowledge. But I am still unfamiliar with your customs.” To Svarnil’s surprise, the guard gave her a sardonic smile. “Everybody always just says yes,” he said, “I’m guessing a maybe from you means more than an entire ship’s cargo of yesses from the rest of them. Enjoy your visit.” He jerked his head toward the city behind him. She returned his smile, and

stepped under the enormous gate. She was past, the manuscripts were safe, and then suddenly – “Hey, elf! Wait!” the guard shouted behind her. Svarnil turned around, her heart thumping. Had something aroused his suspicions? “I don’t know how long you plan to stay here,” he said, “But the Merchant’s Council will be voting on a new law in the next week or two. If the law’s passed, you’d better watch yourself. It’s about appropriate clothing and I promise you you’ll be breaking the law in that elvish get-up.” “Oh,” Svarnil exclaimed, taken entirely by surprise, “Thank you for the warning!” He nodded at her again, and turned back to his post. Svarnil entered K’Ten, the trunk of manuscripts still safely on her back. Svarnil found the public well easily enough, and she sat down on one of the benches in the square. She was just out of sight of the Great Gate now, but Nulif and his assistants had not been far behind. She looked around curiously. Svarnil had been born in a small town in the lap of the Northmountains, and there she had spent her childhood, always among neighbors. It had been rare for her to see an elf she had never met, and rarer still to see anyone who was not an elf. She had never expected to see any of the cities whose names she had learned in the legends the bard Venn had taught her. She had never expected to see a city at all. Then had come the journey to Eotheort, which had seemed to the elf as vast and teeming as a beehive. Then Uparajsarnamra, and then Sisoa, each larger than the one before, each busier and more full of strangers. So here she was now in K’Ten, bigger even than Sisoa, if that were possible, and with a look and a feel all its own. The buildings were larger and taller, decorated with pillars and arches painted in wide stripes of yellow, ochre, and henna. Vines thrived in the humid air, and everywhere they were twining

from pots or spilling from windowboxes, covered in stiff coral-colored petals or fluffy balls of yellow. But where was Nulif? Was Svarnil somehow at the wrong public well? She began to grow nervous. Reaching up to Fethilis on her shoulder, she felt the lylit’s tiny fingers curl around her finger. She set herself to consider her situation rationally. What would she do if Nulif never came? That was simple at least. If something terrible had happened to Nulif and his assistants, Svarnil would ask someone for directions to the Great Collection and deliver the trunk of manuscripts to the Head Librarians on his behalf. But the time for that had not yet come. When the woman drawing water at the well had finished, Svarnil drew up a bucketful for herself, washed her face, drank deeply, offerred the bucket to Fethilis, and watered the patient mule. Not long after she had finished, Bolekwa and Jadogwa rode into the square. Nulif was not with them. “Is it safe?” Bolekwa asked as soon as they reached the well. Svarnil nodded. “Yes. What happened?” “They searched us. Searched everything. They had obviously been warned to intercept us and take any manuscripts they found. Thanks be to God we had you take it! When they were sure we had nothing, they let me and Jadogwa go, but they kept Nulif for questioning.” “Will he be all right?” Svarnil asked anxiously. She had no idea what “questioning” meant in K’Ten. “They won’t hurt him,” Bolekwa reassured her, “When they let us go, he said, ‘We won’t have time to get to the Great Collection this evening, so let my mother know I have been detained.’ I take that to mean he wants us to bring you – and the trunk – to his house. I can’t imagine they can keep him long, but there’s no sense in waiting around here. We especially can’t risk having any of the guards notice

you are with us. In fact, it might be best if you just follow along a little behind us, if you don’t mind.” Svarnil nodded, and when the two researchers rode away from the public well, she swung back onto her mule and rode after them, trying not to look as if she were watching them. Dusk fell early here in the south, and the sky was already darkening when Bolekwa stopped in a narrow street and knocked on a door. Lantern light spilled out when the door opened, and the woman who stood there gave a cry of surprise when she saw Bolekwa. Bolekwa said, “Madam Chafele, I have a message from your son. He expects to be home soon, but he was detained by the guards at the Great Gate. Until he arrives, would you be willing to take in a companion from our expedition? This is Svarnil of the Tungoldroleth.” The older man motioned Svarnil forward, and she dismounted and stepped into the light. “Yes, of course. Come in,” said the woman, and to the others she said, “Won’t you come in, too? You must be exhausted, and I expect you need your supper.” “Thank you, Madam Chafele, but I think Jadogwa and I will head straight to our quarters. Perhaps we might call on you another day.” He gave a little bow, and Svarnil found herself surprised to see him so courtly. Presumably now that he was in K’Ten he had assumed more polished manners. At any rate, he turned to Svarnil and bowed to her, too. “I trust I will see you again, Madam Svarnil. Goodnight, ladies.” “Goodnight, Bolekwa. Goodnight, Jadogwa. Thank you!” He remounted, and the two men were soon out of sight in the dusk. Chafele called out, “Ekibi, we have a guest. Come help her bring in her things. Mochekwa,

here’s a kona. Run this mule to the stable, and tell them it will be just one night.” A young woman came forward and unfastened the saddle-bags from the mule so that her little brother could lead it back up the street. Then she and Svarnil each hoisted an armful of bags and carried them inside. Chafele shut the door and turned to look at her guest. Her eyes widened with astonishment. “Gracious,” she exclaimed, “You’re certainly no Minarian! And is that a leaf baby?” Her tone was wary, but not unfriendly. “Come, have something to eat. And tell me, how did you come to join Nulif’s research expedition?” Svarnil followed her hostess to the large table where an older man and a younger girl already sat. They were staring at her. The older girl, Ekibi, said, “There’s water here, if you would like to wash,” and led Svarnil to a large basin in the kitchen. When Svarnil returned to the table, Chafele asked her to be seated, and the door swung open again. Svarnil looked up eagerly, but it was the boy returning from his errand to the stable. He, too, washed his hands and came to the table. Then the family bowed their heads, and the old man said, “God of Creation, we respond with Gratitude to the bounty before us. Let it remind us always of our Duty to care for the Divine creation.” He reached then for the bowl of rice and helped himself, before turning to Svarnil and saying, “So, Svarnili, you were with the Great Collection’s research expedition to the Fulakwe?” “My name is Svarnil. I am not a researcher for the Great Collection, but I am a sort of researcher. I am a bard, of the Fellowship of Bards, so that my calling is to search for the truth of the past and remember it so that it can be passed on to the future. Nulif granted me permission to join his expedition so that I might learn about Chebik and the Hands.”

Svarnil tried to explain her presence, but she felt that her explanation must not be very satisfactory, for the old man looked thoroughly dubious. To Svarnil’s immense relief, however, she had not been there very long before the door opened again and this time it was Nulif who entered. He dumped his baggage on the floor next to Svarnil’s, strode to Chafele, who had leapt up from the table, and embraced her. The three children all jumped up, too, and rushed to hug their brother. “It is good to be home, Mum!” he cried, “Svarnil, all safe?” “All safe,” she replied. He looked around at his grinning family. “Ekibi, Abebe, beautiful as ever, I see. Mochekwa, I was gone not four months and yet you’re looking like quite a man. Grandfather, I hope I find you well?” “Certainly,” the old man replied. “Let me wash up, then, and I’ll tell you all about the expedition. You’ve met Svarnil, of course. I am very sorry I was not here to introduce you properly, but you will hear all about it right away, don’t worry.”

* Sakar Akweka devises another plan *

“They got in?” Akweka shouted, “How can that be? Did you not give the guards their orders? If one of them slipped up I swear he’ll pay!” His hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. “They had no manuscripts with them,” explained the secretary patiently. He wondered whether it was time to start searching for another post. If Akweka was losing control perhaps it would be better to move on. He had no intention of hoisting his sail where there was no wind. He gave no sign of these thoughts, however, but continued, “The three of them were taken aside and searched, and they had nothing. They were questioned, and the Elaba said he had given the manuscripts to another researcher before he reached K’Ten. He was asked whom, but he said that was the business of the Great Collection and if they wanted more information they could take it up with the Head Librarians. Since he had broken no laws, the guards could hardly detain him longer.” Akweka was chewing his fingernail again, but after a pause he said decisively, “Very well. Then we shall have to discredit him.” He thought for another long moment and then went on, “Obviously it would be wicked corruption for the Chebik-lan to accept Nulif’s findings. But the Divine’s messages are not always clear, and the Chebik-lan do not always read them the way we might like. How can we human hands of Chebik provide signs that can be clearly read as messages from God? Messages to guide us away from corruption?” The secretary smiled. Perhaps his master had not yet lost control. “I see what you mean, Sakar,” he said, “I will give the matter thought.”

CHAPTER 6: Svarnil sees the Great Collection Finding her people’s leader, the young woman told him of the dreadful men she had seen. Swiftly he called all the gentle people together. One look at his sorrowful face and the jungle dwellers knew something terrible had happened. “My people,” the leader said gravely, “The Selfish People have discovered us. It will not be long before they find their way to our village. If you want, I can give you weapons and teach you how to fight, so that we can chase the Selfish People away and guard our borders against them from now on. But there is a danger. Once you have learned how to fight, you will begin to fight each other. You will argue with those you love, and desire the lives your neighbors live, and in time you will yourselves become selfish people.”

- from The Gentle People, An Ancient Tale of the Indigenous Jungle Tribes

The following day, Svarnil had said no more than “Good morning,” when Chafele said, “Nula tells me you know no one in K’Ten, and have nowhere to stay. Please do us the honor of living here with us while you are in K’Ten. The Family Atsu would be pleased to have you.” “Thank you very much,” Svarnil answered, “I have no wish to impose on you. I hope you don’t think I expected…” Before she could protest any further, Chafele laughed. “Don’t you worry, Madam. If my Nula

says you are a friend, I am happy to have you here. Now, come have some breakfast.” When Svarnil was seated at the table, she looked around again more carefully at the people she would be staying with. There was Nulif’s grandfather, Chakuyon, who sat straight as a fir, his short grey beard impeccably trimmed. Nulif’s mother, Chafele, had a smile as gentle as her son’s. Then came Nulif, then his sister Ekibi, who was sixteen years old, his next sister Abebe, who was twelve, and finally his little brother Mochekwa, who was eight. They seemed a cheerful family and Svarnil felt her heart warmed by their hospitality. However, all through the meal the children kept staring at the elf so intently that Nulif finally said with a laugh, “Mochekwa, what are you goggling at! She isn’t a ghost!” At this, Nulif’s little brother blurted, “Then what is she?” His mother looked shocked and admonished, “Hush, Mochekwa! That is not polite! This is our guest!” Svarnil smiled, however. “I don’t mind. I expect you’ve never seen anyone who looks like me before. I am an elf. I come from Tanoeb which is way far to the north, beyond Sisoa, all the way in the Northmountains right at the top of the Otherworld.” “But what is an elf? Why are you so pale and funny-looking?” “An elf is just another kind of person. I look different, because the elves and the Seapeople were not born from the same creation. Do you want to hear the story? I don’t mind telling it, but perhaps the others would be bored.” But the two girls shook their heads and Chafele smiled. “We are all eager to hear,” she said, “And if my rude son, here, should learn something, so much the better.”

So Svarnil fetched her small travelling harp from her pack. The family watched with interest as she settled the harp against her shoulder, the gleaming dragon head of its carved pillar looking out at them as she tuned the strings. “Long long ago,” she began, “When the Otherworld was freshly made, the first wise beings were born on it. In two different places people were born. On the South Continent appeared the Firstpeople, and on another land far to the north and west of here, across the ocean, appeared the Elves. Here on this continent, the first wise beings were the Dragons. The Dragons, the Firstpeople and the Elves were entirely separate and knew nothing of each other, for at that time all the wise beings were like children, discovering how to live in the Otherworld. Some legends say they were made from different materials, the Dragons from metal and smoke, the Firstpeople from dark clay and sunlight, and the Elves from grey clay and moonlight. But although they had each been created for their own place, yet they were all created to be caretakers of the Otherworld, able to know both the Otherworld and the Divine intention.” Here Svarnil shot a smile at Nulif. “You see,” she said to him, “The legend was there all along, and now I can fit your language to it. Well, the Firstpeople and the Elves built themselves villages and husbanded the earth, but the Dragons remained wild, so on this continent a new race of people was created. The Dwarves were born underground, from the molten stone within the deepest earth. And then finally the youngest of the wise beings were created from sand and seawater. That was you. “It was ages afterwards that the elves first came to this continent, sailing across the northern oceans in ships which we have long since forgotten how to build. I am of the Tungoldroleth, from the Northmountains, which we call the Mountans

Misthilith, and there are also the Teppisht who live just north of Yuwara Ul Sahd. But if my ancestors were made of moonlight and yours of seawater, what difference does it make now? I have eyes and nose and mouth just like you, and hands and feet, and hair on my head, just like you, even if it is a funny color. When I get hurt my blood is just like yours, for we share the same life. Your people and mine are not like cats and birds, made to be different creatures with different jobs in the creation. We were both created to be wise beings and caretakers of the Otherworld. We are not always wise, and we are not always good stewards, but we were made to work together to bring the Otherworld into the pattern of the Divine intention.” As Svarnil spoke Abebe listened to the legend with shining eyes, but Mochekwa looked unconvinced. “What’s wrong with your hands? Do all elves look like that?” Svarnil spread out her hands and looked at them. The skin was scarred all across the palms and fingers, shiny and taut. “No,” she said quietly, “Other elves are not like this.” She closed and opened her hands, feeling the pull of the scar tissue as the skin flexed. Most of the time now she was able to ignore it, but it still felt stiff and itchy sometimes. “My hands were frozen. Or maybe I should call it burned. Perhaps some day I will tell you how it happened, but not today.” “And why do you have a boy’s name? And why aren’t you wearing a kilt?” the boy persisted. “That’s enough now, Mochekwa,” his mother said warningly. It was true that Svarnil was the only one in the room not wearing a kilt. Her plain grey tunic and leggings looked strangely simple in contrast with the bright gathered and embroidered fabric worn by the others.

“Kilts are Minarian,” Svarnil answered, “No one wears a kilt where I come from. That reminds me, though, the guard at the gate warned me that there might soon be a new law saying my clothes are inappropriate. Can you tell me any more about this?” “What is this?” Nulif demanded, “A law about clothes?” “Oh yes,” his mother answered, “While you were gone the Shikat proposed a number of new laws. They say it is no longer acceptable to have people choose to disregard the Duties. The Duties as the Shikat interpret them, of course. They say the Chebik-lan must work more actively to bring all of Minaria in line with the Vision, and punish those who stray. So there is a law proposed now requiring appropriate dress. Ankles covered for women, knees covered for men. No vests without shirts in public. That sort of thing.” “The Merchants’ Council is actually considering this proposal?” Nulif cried. “More than considering. Most people think it will be approved.” “And what other laws have the Shikat proposed?” The older sister, Ekibi, burst out, “They want to make it illegal for women to be teachers! In any temples, not just Shikat temples!” “I think eventually they will have all the Duties made law, in all their literal interpretation,” added Chafele. Nulif protested, “But that is not what the Divine intends! That was never part of Chebik’s Vision! These manuscripts we just discovered prove that. I can see it is not enough for me to present my finds to the Head Librarians. I’ve got to make sure the people of Minar understand the truth about the scripture, before false scriptures are used to justify false laws!”

At this Chakuyon barked, “Bite your tongue, Nulif. How dare you call the scripture false!” “Grandfather, I know you attend the Nogosh Temple and favor the Shikat teachings, but surely if you learned that the scripture taught there had become corrupted over the centuries, would you not want to know what Chebik really said? And I can show you! I can show everyone. “It looks as if we have more work to do than I realized. I’d better get these manuscripts to the Head Librarians as soon as possible. Svarnil, would you like to come with me and see the Great Collection?” During the walk to the Great Collection Svarnil was interested in all the buildings with their pillared and painted facades. Bright flowers grew riotously from windowboxes and doorsteps, and vines trailed down from rooftop gardens. Throughout the city there were small public squares shaded by wide, dark-leafed trees. Yet despite this beauty, it soon began to seem to Svarnil that K’Ten was oppressive and hectic, as if the Minarians rushed in their work not for the pride of success, but for fear of failure. Some of the passing people glared at Svarnil, or averted their eyes. Others looked fearful or distraught. The worry seemed to lie in the air like a cloud until it was impossible to shrug it away. “What is wrong here?” Svarnil asked, the question out before she could stop herself. Nulif turned his mild hazel eyes on her, the worry lying across his expression, too. “So many little things,” he answered, “There have always been the fears of storms and pirates, and the problems with the Talon Empire. There is scarcely a family in Minar that has no one out on ship, so everyone you see is waiting for a loved one, wondering if he will make it home. But recently there have also been the attacks.”

“Attacks? What kind of attacks?” “Spirits of some kind, elementals or monsters. No one knows where they come from or why. So far they have been to the east, along the edges of the jungle, but they are appearing with increasing frequency, and every time news comes from N’Juma we hear of more people crippled or killed, more homes destroyed. The elementals are appearing more often, and people are frightened. They no longer feel safe. They no longer feel as if they know where danger lies and how to face it. I think that may be why so many of them are turning to the Shikat temples now. The Shikat priests tell them that all they have to do is follow the rules and they will be saved. Follow the rules, and punish those who do not. I think it gives people something to do rather than feeling helpless. And it seems the Shikat will make their rules into national law now. That will add its own new worries, as we will all be terrified lest we break some foolish narrow law and be blamed for the next thing to go wrong.” He shrugged ruefully. “Perhaps it is only that I am no longer a child, but it seems to me that K’Ten was not always this way. That it has closed in, or lost its joy. I wish I could have shown you K’Ten as I remember it.” “It is a lovely city still, Nulif,” Svarnil replied, “Perhaps this message you bring from Chebik will give your people something better to hold to.” “Perhaps. But I fear it will bring only conflict and confusion, and more worry.” Just as Nulif spoke, something hit Svarnil sharply on the shoulder, and an image of a cluster of elderly women flew into her mind as Fethilis lifted off and fluttered above her. She whirled around, rubbing the spot, and another nut cracked against her collarbone. “Get some clothes on, hussy!” called out a shrill voice, and Svarnil found the group of women she

had seen in Fethilis’s mind. They were standing in the shade under a portico, market baskets over their arms. “How dare you show yourself like that!” screamed another. Nulif took one long stride toward them, opening his mouth to retort, but Svarnil grabbed his arm. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, “We should just go.” “And you,” one of the women shrieked at Nulif, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, walking about with a woman like that!” His face flushed dark, but he turned and walked away quickly with Svarnil. As the jeers faded behind them, he said bitterly, “How can they tell me I ought to be ashamed, when they are the ones abusing strangers!” Svarnil said quietly, “It seems they are not waiting for that law to be passed. Perhaps it would be better if I find some different clothes to wear in K’Ten.” “And let them win? You have every right to wear whatever you want, especially when you are perfectly appropriate for an elf!” “Just for now, Nulif. Your job right now is to spread the news about the original version of the scripture. If I’m going around looking like a hussy –“ “But you don’t!” he sputtered. “I did to those women,” she returned. “I can only hinder your efforts if I draw attention to myself this way.” When they reached the magnificent building that housed the Great Collection, Svarnil gasped in amazement. It rose in a series of five tiers, each story ornamented with arches all the way around. The pillars supporting these arches were striped with horizontal bands of white and cream, and the arches were accented with gold leaf. The entrance to the

Great Collection faced a plaza paved with white stone and ringed with lofty trees forming their own series of pillars and arches. In the middle of the plaza stood a fountain in the shape of a winged man pouring water from a large urn. The fountain’s water flowed from the urn into a pool below, which was carved around the rim with a circle of people holding hands, their heads tipped back to gaze up at the larger figure in apparent adoration. When he saw Svarnil looking at the statue, Nulif, who was still fuming, said, “Some say it’s meant to represent the Third Aspect, Omniscience. So then others say it’s the Oracle, which the Bachut call the Third Aspect. Others say it’s just meant to represent Knowledge pouring out wisdom. As if there is any wisdom in this city nowadays. Come inside, where the real knowledge is.” Nulif held open a huge gilded door for Svarnil, and she walked though into an enormous circular room. Wide staircases swept up like wings on either side of the vast, dim space, and between them were large desks and rows of shelves. The walls, too, were lined with long shelves filled with books and scrolls. Svarnil stared around in astonishment. She had never realized there were so many books in the Otherworld, let alone in one room. Then she saw Bolekwa and Jadogwa coming over to meet them. They greeted each other and Nulif said, “I brought Svarnil so she could look around while we meet with the Head Librarians and give our preliminary report.” “This is just incredible,” Svarnil breathed, “How could anyone read all this?” “I don’t know that any one person has read all of it,” Nulif laughed, “But you can make a start right now, if you’d like, Svarnil. Let me show you the best place to read.” He led the group up one of the staircases to the second floor, another single round room. This one was somewhat smaller, and the wall

was punctuated all the way around by a dozen doors. Holding the nearest door open for Svarnil, Nulif gestured out onto a broad terrace that ringed the building. Wooden tables and benches were arranged outside each of the doors. A number of people were scattered on the terrace, sitting at the tables and studying books, or writing busily on papers spread before them. This was the first place in K’Ten where Svarnil had noticed people of other races from the Minarians. Nulif said, “You can sit out here. I’d better get this safely delivered.” He patted the trunk under his arm. “But I shall be back down before lunch time.” He and Bolekwa started toward one of the staircases that curved up to the third floor, but the younger assistant hung back a moment longer with the elf. “Thought you might like to read this,” Jadogwa said, handing her a small book with a scrap of ribbon inserted between two pages in the middle. “I marked the spot. It’s a story the Bachut still tell, about the lylits.” Then he added shyly, “One of my favorites.” Svarnil regarded him with surprise, for he seldom initiated any conversations. “How thoughtful of you! Thank you very much,” she said, and he gave his little nod and followed the other researchers up the stairs to the Head Librarians. She really had become very fond of all three of the researchers during their time near the Border Plateau, Svarnil considered as she went out the door to sit at a table in the sunshine. Bolekwa was gruff, but he would never let a lie or an injustice go unquestioned. Nulif, with his boyish eagerness for his discoveries, seemed to have such honest faith and generosity. As for Jadogwa, he was hard to know, for he spoke seldom and almost never about himself. Yet she had learned that he had come at least four or five years ago all the way from his village near the jungle to work at the Great

Collection, and he was only nineteen years old now. He might not waste words, but he was unstinting with his energy, invariably hard-working and uncomplaining. Svarnil would never have guessed that he had given her and Fethilis another thought, yet he had gone out of his way to share this book with her. She looked at the small volume now, laboriously spelling out the long words of the title. It was called Ancient Tales of the Indigenous Jungle Tribes. Opening the book to the place marked by the ribbon, she found written at the top of the page, “The Gentle People.” Fethilis jiggled excitedly on her shoulder, and then snuggled comfortably against her ear. Slowly and carefully, Svarnil began to read.

* Sakar Akweka has an inspiration *

“A sorcerer?” the secretary repeated dubiously. “Yes. From the South Continent. The problem is this: anything done by Minarians to discredit the Elaba can be traced to them, and through them to us. We need signs that appear to be divine, not mortal, and we need signs that cannot be attributed to any Minarian motives. We need sorcery. I have heard of a man called Varak the Summoner who resides somewhere near the dockyards. You must find him and discover if there is any truth in his claims of magic. I don’t need foolish amulets or love potions. I need power that can shake all of K’Ten. But above all, I need discretion. You must not make enquiries that can be traced back to us, nor must you be seen in this man’s company. Do you understand?” “Yes, sakar,” answered the secretary, “Have I ever failed you?” Akweka smiled. “You have always been able to charm where it is needed. But charm will not be enough to get this job done.” “I understand, sakar. I will handle this.”