Read Online Sword and Verse by Kathy MacMillan - Free Book Online Page B

“because you will train the future monarch of Qilara to converse with the gods. You cannot do that if you are too lazy to write the symbols correctly.”
    I had to look away from the harsh light in her eyes. It was important that I continue. It might be the only way to read myheart-verse, if I could just figure out how my father had used the symbols.
    Laiyonea’s voice, softer now, came to my ears. “It is an enormous responsibility. You are young, but many others have taken it on far younger. I was one of them.”
    I hadn’t thought of that. I tried to picture Laiyonea as a child, three or four years old as most Tutors were when they began their study, and I could not.
    Laiyonea took my paper and wrote something on the back. She held it up. I examined the symbols, but only recognized two: palace , and another that I thought meant priest , but it had a determinative I didn’t recognize. “I can’t read that,” I said.
    Laiyonea pointed to the first symbol. “This means priest. The determinative shows that it is the highest priest. The next symbol can mean either a person’s face or a person’s character, depending on context. See how the line shows that the first and second symbols are connected? Next is the palace—you should recognize that—and a crowd of people. Then the ground where they walk, and a compound symbol— right , with everyday activity on top. It means ‘appropriate.’ Next is the curved line connecting the face to the ground. What does it mean?”
    I stared at the page, afraid to say what I thought.
    â€œI know you’re not stupid, so I assume you’re just being timid,” Laiyonea said. “‘The high priest’s face is like the stones beneath our feet.’ In this case, the chief high priest, or Penta Rale.”
    I wasn’t sure if laughing was allowed, but Laiyonea chuckled, so I let out a strangled giggle.
    She leaned forward. “You could walk up to Rale, or any of theScholars Council even, and wave this paper in their faces, and they wouldn’t recognize the insult. I know you couldn’t really do that,” she added impatiently, when I started to protest, “but the point is that you already have knowledge denied to most Qilarites. You know of the first Tutor?”
    I nodded. One of the other girls in the Selection, a dark-haired, cocksure orphan from the city, had whispered the tale to the rest of us while we waited to be called to the council chamber. “King Balon taught his Arnath concubine the language of the gods so that she could teach his son. He feared what a priest or Scholar would do with the higher order symbols, so he entrusted them to someone who was . . . powerless.”
    Laiyonea lifted her chin. “That depends on what you consider power.”
    I pursed my lips, pondering her words. That was why we were kept away from the other Arnathim, and given so many apparent privileges—to keep us compliant. The phrase “shackles of silk” flitted through my mind. I pushed it away.
    The knowledge I learned in the Adytum was powerful—it would help me unlock my heart-verse, if only I found the right symbols. That was what mattered.
    â€œI’ll try harder,” I said.
    Laiyonea smiled. She came around the table and fingered a lock of my hair, which I had not bothered to tie back. “We really ought to dye that,” she said. “A bit of qodal would darken it. And cut it shorter too, in the Qilarite style, to get rid of the waves.”
    I remembered my mother’s thick auburn hair, soft over my fingers when I used to touch it as a child. “No,” I said.
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œNo,” I repeated loudly. “I won’t dye my hair. Or cut it.”
    Laiyonea went still. “I see,” she said softly, but there was nothing gentle in her tone. “Braid it back then.” She dropped my hair and returned to her seat; the