“But how can he—how can they just—just do these things?”
Brother Ehan slapped him on the back again, and Stephen nearly bit his own tongue in half.
“You idiot!” Ehan hissed. “Do you know me? Or Brother Alprin? You just met us! We could be the worst of the lot! And if we were, right now you would, by the saints of storm and blood, be regretting it, oh, terribly you would. You want to survive here? Listen, learn—don’t talk until you know the other fellow.”
“Aren’t you breaking your own rule? You don’t know me either.”
“I know you’re new. That’s enough.”
“He’s right,” Alprin said. “And don’t expect any kindness from us—or anyone—if there’s the least chance anyone is watching. There are rules concerning new people. Even I won’t break them, often.”
“So you’ve been warned,” Ehan grunted. “That’s more than I meant to do, and it’s the last you’ll get. Trust no one.” He scratched his chin. “Oh, and the fratrex wanted you in the scriftorium a quarter bell ago. Something about ‘important translations.’ ”
“Saints!” Stephen said. “But my things—”
“Forget them,” Alprin said. “Really. You’re sworn to poverty anyway.”
“But my things weren’t riches. They were things I need for my work.”
“You have the whole scriftorium,” Ehan said. “What else could you need?”
“My notes.”
“Too bad.” Brother Ehan turned to Brother Alprin. “It’s time we left. We’ve risked our necks enough for one day, and I’ve got work to do.”
“Thank you,” Stephen said. “Eh Danka ’zwes.”
Ehan laughed as he left. “Speaking Herilanzer,” he exclaimed. “What next?”
What indeed? Stephen thought. Back at Tor Scath, he thought things had gotten as bad as they could. Now he found he was already nostalgic for those days.
But the scriftorium awaited, and that thought still brought excitement, though a much warier excitement than he had known the day before.
“Stiff from carrying that wood, eh?” the fratrex asked, peering down his nose.
“Very stiff, Reverend,” Stephen replied. He wasn’t fooling himself. Despite choosing his words carefully, he’d just told his superior a lie. He didn’t like it, but until he understood more about the monastery and its inhabitants, he was determined to take the ominous advice of Brothers Alprin and Ehan.
The fratrex looked sympathetic. “Well, this evening you can take the meal out to the watchposts. The walk will loosen you up.”
“Thank you, Fratrex.”
“No need for that. Now, my boy, did you find anything of interest yesterday? I’m sure you did.”
I found rotten apples in the church bin, Stephen thought sourly.
“I found an early copy of the Amena Tirson,” he said.
The fratrex nodded approvingly. “Ah, yes, the old geography. We have the original.”
“I think that must have been what I found. Were—were the copies made here?”
The fratrex scratched his chin and cocked his head. “It’s been here for the last two centuries, so I would guess that any copy you’ve seen elsewhere came from here. Why? Did you find an error?”
“Not exactly. What I—”
“Well then! Of course not. We have the best copyists in the world.” He winked at Stephen. “And the most competent translators, eh? Now, do you want to see what I brought you here to show you?”
“Very much, Fratrex Pell,” Stephen said.
The old man thumped a cedar box. “It’s right here.”
The box was much like the one that had held the Amena Tirson, but larger. This box looked new—but when the old man slid off the lid, what was inside did not.
“Lead sheets,” Stephen murmured, almost to himself. “A holy text.”
“So one would think. But see the date? This predates the Hegemony—and the spread of the church in this area—by two hundred years.”
“True,” Stephen agreed. “But scriving on lead was known to have significance even before the church codified its use. Messages to the dead, for instance, were written that way, in archaic Vitellian, before the Sacaratum and the first church.”
“Messages to the dead, yes,” the fratrex acknowledged. “According to our earliest doctrines, the spirits of the departed are best able to read from lead. But before the church, those messages were small things—curses and other requests, just as some still write today. It was only after the second reform that texts dedicated to the saints were written in this fashion, since the saints are served by the departed.
“But here, long before the second reform—well, see for yourself.”
Stephen moved closer, for a better look, and his heart thumped faster. The pain in his back didn’t go away, but for an instant he nearly forgot about it. “It’s an entire text,” he said. “A book, just like the sacred writings of the church.”
“And do you know the language?”
“May I hold it?”
“Of course.”
Stephen lifted out the first heavy leaf. When his fingers touched it, it almost seemed as if he could taste the lead in his mouth, and his fingers trembled slightly.
Who had scrived this? What had the author been feeling, when he set down this first page? The immensity of time swept over Stephen like a wave tumbling him in the ocean— delightful and a little frightening. He squinted at the small figures.
“There is a great deal of patination,” he murmured, brushing at the white film that coated it. “Where was this found?”
“In the old chapel of Saint Donwys, in the Marches of Hume, or so I’m told.”
“They didn’t take very good care of it,” Stephen noticed. “It’s been kept damp.” He frowned. “And it almost looks— could it have ever been buried?”
“I doubt that,” the fratrex said. “In any case, we have it now, and will take proper care of it. Indeed, that’s another reason we requested a brother of your qualifications. To be honest, I would have preferred someone higher in the order than a novice, but I’m sure you’ll prove yourself worthy of the church’s trust.”
“I will strive to, Reverend.”
“Now. What can you tell me of it? It’s Vadhiian, that much even I can discern, but—”
“With greatest respect, Reverend,” Stephen said, very cautiously, remembering his earlier lesson in humility. “At first glance, I’m not altogether certain that’s the case.”
“Oh?”
“It’s similar, to be sure, but …” He stared at the first line, frowning.
“It’s the Vadhiian characters, yes?” the fratrex asked.
“Yes. But look at this line. It looks like Dhyvhubh khamy, ‘this addressed to the gods.’ In Vadhiian, that ought to be Kanmi udhe dhivhi. You see? Vadhiian had lost the case endings from ancient Croatani. I think this is an unknown dialect— perhaps a very old form of Vadhiian.”
“Indeed? How old? The date tells us it was written during the reign of the Black Jester. The language of his empire was Vadhiian.”
“The text may have been copied. See here, below the date?”
“I see the letter Q, at least if I understand the scrift.”
“It is Q,” Stephen affirmed. “The Black Jester reigned for the most part of a century. During the early years of his rule, it became customary for a scrive or translator to put his mark below the date.” He smiled grimly. “The Jester wanted to know who to punish if anything was copied incorrectly. After his defeat, of course, the Hegemony established itself, and the church along with it, and practices were brought into line with church procedure.”
“You think this is a copy of something earlier, then?”