persisted.
‘You’ll know, Elias. Best you don’t torture yourself till the time comes. We’ve all got a burden to carry, and yours is greater than most.’
Unsettled, Elias put down his mug. ‘You’re talking about the future?’ Trencher’s ability for precognition was extraordinary, while Elias’s own visions were like faded family photographs, bleached images so vague in detail they could represent almost anything. But Trencher saw so much more. The old man had known precisely when to glance out of the window, Elias realized: just at the right moment to see a sparrow fly past, its tiny wings beating furiously in the still dead air.
Trencher had sighed heavily then. ‘I told you there were three of us. Vaughn was one of the others. He’s going to come to you, soon. Don’t listen to him, Elias, whatever he says. He’s powerful, dangerous. He believes in everything the Primalists taught him, and more.’
The old man was silent for a few moments. ‘Something bad’s going to happen, Elias,’ he said at length. ‘I’m going somewhere soon, and I need you to do something for me, okay?’
‘Something bad? How bad?’
‘Let’s just say I’ll be gone for a while. I want you – I want you to do the right thing.’
‘What?’
‘The right thing – when the time comes.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘When the time comes,’ Trencher had repeated patiently, ‘you’ll know what to do.’
That had been one of the last times Elias ever saw Trencher. Elias came by one day, found half the block burning, its ruined apartments gaping open as masonry tumbled downwards.
Elias thought about these events, and after he’d thought about them some more, he went looking for Hollis.
Ursu
It had not been a good morning.
Ursu had woken to the thunderous sound of the army encamped outside the walls, yelling and hooting enough to drive fear into the hearts of all the citizens. Ursu was now a Master-in-Waiting, and in the three days since the god had spoken to him, he’d tried to find some kind of precedent in the Book of Shecumpeh.
He pored through thick, heavy pages rich with ink and platitudes, but discovered nothing that described anything like the situation he now found himself in.
The Book of Shecumpeh was kept in a vault below the stables, attended by an elderly amanuensis named Turthe. Ursu was aware that Turthe was seeking someone to learn the arts necessary for making new copies of the Book and, perhaps, eventually take his place. For in many civil matters decisions made were based on sayings found in the Book of Shecumpeh.
Ursu knew that there were other communities, beyond the valley and still further away, which also revered their own city gods, each as jealously guarded as Shecumpeh was in Nubala, and that many of those cities also kept their own great books. But there was only one Book of Shecumpeh, much as there was only one city of Nubala. All the Masters-in-Waiting were required to learn the words of the book by rote, but it was Turthe’s task to repair and maintain the current copy.
The pages were heavy, the covers made from fine beaten leather. The paper had been handmade, sheet by sheet, by Turthe himself. Mostly, its text consisted of stories of all the leaders of Nubala since the city had been founded at the beginning of the Great Cold, when the ice came. But also within it were stories of the great heroes of Nubala, and the battles they had fought. Fables, legends and prophecies filled these pages.
Ursu’s mind drifted constantly back to the deeply certain knowledge he’d been given by the god; in those strange half-images that seemed to suggest words, there had been absolutely no confusion, no doubt of what was being asked of him.
Which left the question of when he should do it. It wasn’t like he could just tumble down those stone steps, snatch the thing up, and vault to freedom over the city walls. Lack of opportunity combined with his own fear, and Ursu could not help but dither
‘You’ll know, Elias. Best you don’t torture yourself till the time comes. We’ve all got a burden to carry, and yours is greater than most.’
Unsettled, Elias put down his mug. ‘You’re talking about the future?’ Trencher’s ability for precognition was extraordinary, while Elias’s own visions were like faded family photographs, bleached images so vague in detail they could represent almost anything. But Trencher saw so much more. The old man had known precisely when to glance out of the window, Elias realized: just at the right moment to see a sparrow fly past, its tiny wings beating furiously in the still dead air.
Trencher had sighed heavily then. ‘I told you there were three of us. Vaughn was one of the others. He’s going to come to you, soon. Don’t listen to him, Elias, whatever he says. He’s powerful, dangerous. He believes in everything the Primalists taught him, and more.’
The old man was silent for a few moments. ‘Something bad’s going to happen, Elias,’ he said at length. ‘I’m going somewhere soon, and I need you to do something for me, okay?’
‘Something bad? How bad?’
‘Let’s just say I’ll be gone for a while. I want you – I want you to do the right thing.’
‘What?’
‘The right thing – when the time comes.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘When the time comes,’ Trencher had repeated patiently, ‘you’ll know what to do.’
That had been one of the last times Elias ever saw Trencher. Elias came by one day, found half the block burning, its ruined apartments gaping open as masonry tumbled downwards.
Elias thought about these events, and after he’d thought about them some more, he went looking for Hollis.
Ursu
It had not been a good morning.
Ursu had woken to the thunderous sound of the army encamped outside the walls, yelling and hooting enough to drive fear into the hearts of all the citizens. Ursu was now a Master-in-Waiting, and in the three days since the god had spoken to him, he’d tried to find some kind of precedent in the Book of Shecumpeh.
He pored through thick, heavy pages rich with ink and platitudes, but discovered nothing that described anything like the situation he now found himself in.
The Book of Shecumpeh was kept in a vault below the stables, attended by an elderly amanuensis named Turthe. Ursu was aware that Turthe was seeking someone to learn the arts necessary for making new copies of the Book and, perhaps, eventually take his place. For in many civil matters decisions made were based on sayings found in the Book of Shecumpeh.
Ursu knew that there were other communities, beyond the valley and still further away, which also revered their own city gods, each as jealously guarded as Shecumpeh was in Nubala, and that many of those cities also kept their own great books. But there was only one Book of Shecumpeh, much as there was only one city of Nubala. All the Masters-in-Waiting were required to learn the words of the book by rote, but it was Turthe’s task to repair and maintain the current copy.
The pages were heavy, the covers made from fine beaten leather. The paper had been handmade, sheet by sheet, by Turthe himself. Mostly, its text consisted of stories of all the leaders of Nubala since the city had been founded at the beginning of the Great Cold, when the ice came. But also within it were stories of the great heroes of Nubala, and the battles they had fought. Fables, legends and prophecies filled these pages.
Ursu’s mind drifted constantly back to the deeply certain knowledge he’d been given by the god; in those strange half-images that seemed to suggest words, there had been absolutely no confusion, no doubt of what was being asked of him.
Which left the question of when he should do it. It wasn’t like he could just tumble down those stone steps, snatch the thing up, and vault to freedom over the city walls. Lack of opportunity combined with his own fear, and Ursu could not help but dither
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