3
Mereth—her journal at Lormt
(4th and 5th Days, Month of the Ice Dragon, New Year of the Lamia)
My dear one—what would you say of this curious place, fabled Lormt of the Scholars, isolated amid mountains rendered even less accessible by the Turning, as they term the Witches’ spell-shifting of the earth?
I did not think it necessary to dispatch a messenger to herald my coming; that would have been a proper courtesy for a nobleman with a retinue, but scarcely justified for a lone Daleswoman. I recalled Dame Gwersa’s assertion that any serious kin-lore seeker who dared the journey to Lormt was certain to be welcomed, but might also risk being misplaced in the countless archive nooks by the resident scholars who were renowned for their complete devotion to their work.
Although our ride had been long and cold, and both of us were politely greeted upon our arrival, the guide I hired at Es City refused to stay at Lormt. Once he had delivered me and my scant baggage at the metal-bound gates, he would have turned to depart if the gatekeeper had not insisted that he allow his horses to be watered and rested for at least a few hours.
You would have exclaimed, I think, at the vast scale of this citadel of ancient learning. I had formerly believed that there could be no larger building stones than those massive graygreen blocks I had seen in Es City’s walls and Castle. Upon entering Lormt’s great courtyard, however, I concluded that Lormt’s builders must have been capable of wrenching and shaping the very roots of the surrounding mountains.
Dame Gwersa’s informant had reported significant destruction wrought by the earthquake, but I was appalled to observe the actual extent of the ruin. Of the four round towers anchoring the rectangular courtyard, two appeared untouched, a third had lost half its former height, and the fourth corner’s tower had completely collapsed, along with most of its short adjoining wall. The ground beneath that area had dropped away more than a trade wagon’s length, bringing down one entire long outer wall.
Obvious efforts had been made since to deal with the damage and repair what could be salvaged. As we rode in, I noticed newer metal fittings and bindings where the gates had been rehinged and patched. What at first glance appeared to be huge, shapeless heaps of rubble, upon closer viewing showed signs of organized excavation and timber shoring. Several sheds of rough-hewn wood were spaced along the lines of the fallen walls, and sturdy fences of brush and woven withes extended between them to hold back the mountain snowdrifts from overwhelming the courtyard expanse. I judged from the sharp-peaked tower roofs and the steeppitched roofs along the remaining walls and buildings that the winter snows at these heights must be far heavier than those I remembered from my childhood near the Dales’ western peaks.
Dark slates sheathed all the roofs here, including those on the two ancient stone buildings within the courtyard. One tall structure with a strip of high windows running its full length nestled against the intact long wall, while the squatter, smaller building was tucked to the left inside the gates and abutting an undamaged corner tower. Stone watering troughs for the animals were placed near a sheltered well at the right interior corner. Except for the gaps caused by the earth’s subsidence, all the remaining stonework was doubly impressive for the sheer size of the blocks and the tightness of the unmortared joints. I know exactly what you would have done, had you been here with me—you would have peered at the walls and said, “I doubt whether a knife blade could be slipped between those blocks.”
I was not given much initial opportunity to survey my surroundings, however, for I had no sooner dismounted than I was confronted by a party of four figures well-cloaked against the late afternoon chill. To my surprise, when an icy wind gust blew open the leading figure’s cloak, I saw suspended from her belt a wooden runeboard like those used by our Wise Women of the Dales. She raised her hands in ritual greeting, and offered me a traveler’s cup. Cold and stiff as I was from my long day’s ride, I savored the taste of the steaming herbed broth—a welcome cup, indeed!
I extracted my hand slate to write the proper response: “For the welcome of the gate, gratitude. To the ruler of this house, fair fortune. I am Mereth of Ferndale, come here to seek knowledge concerning my kin.”
The Wise Woman accepted my slate and read my message aloud for the others as calmly as if she was frequently accustomed to receiving mute visitors. Her features and coloring were those of Estcarp’s Old Race, but it was heartening to me that she seemed at least familiar with some of our Dales customs. “I am Jonja,” she responded, with a brisk nod of her head. “I welcome you to Lormt.”
“As do I.” A tall, gaunt man beside her stepped forward, his gray eyes proclaiming him also of the Old Race, although age had turned his black hair to silver-white. “I am Ouen. Lormt’s scholars allow me to represent them to guests. This is Duratan, our resident chronicler and invaluable advisor.”
This second tall man had been a soldier at one time, I thought. He was bearing no sword at his belt, but his body seemed still to balance as if compensating for the familiar weight. When he moved toward me, he swung his left leg stiffly, as I had seen many Dales fighters after war injuries. He held out his hand to the fourth figure. “My lady Nolar,” he said, “healer and scholar.” Both of them were of the Old Race, but her face was marred by a dark stain like a splash of wine.
“Come within, out of the cold,” Jonja suggested. “The hour grows late, and you should rest from your journey. We can confer in the morning concerning your request.”
The other three withdrew, while Jonja led me to a guest chamber deep inside the remaining long wall. Stone stairs led up and down, linking what seemed to be countless storage rooms and quiet sleeping cells. Occasional torches supplemented the waning daylight that seeped through slits in the courtyard side of the wall. A few of those curious round light globes like the ones I had seen in Es Castle so many years before also provided additional illumination. My designated room had a low wooden bed whose mattress smelled of sun-dried rushes. Several plain but well-sewn quilts were folded atop a carved chest. An earthenware pitcher and basin stood on the stone ledge near the door.
“I have asked the cooks to send your evening meal here,” Jonja said as she turned to depart. “Should you care to write any queries for our consideration tomorrow, I will ask a scribe to bring you quills, parchment, and ink. May you find here whatever you came to seek. I wish you fair repose this night.”
The meal sent for me was simple, but well prepared and sustaining. I found the white-fleshed steamed roots unfamiliar but tasty, and the rabbit stew was savory. There was sweet butter and fruit conserve to spread on the rounds of barley bread. A flask of hearty ale complemented the food.
Soon after I had set aside my tray, I heard a tap at the door. A man nearly my age bustled in, his arms full of scrolls and quills. He set his bundles on the bed and darted back out into the corridor to fetch in a writing bench and a study lamp. Before I could write my thanks, he had hurried away.
I have been sitting at that bench for some time now, attempting to set my queries in an orderly array. My earlier letter to you composed aboard the ship was most helpful in clarifying my thoughts. I find myself deeply affected by the weight of years pressing upon this place. The kin lists that you and I compiled in the Dales stretched back many generations, but Lormt’s stones belong to an age unbelievably remote beyond any we knew, even from the Dales’ oldest legends. The keen pursuit of learning here by so many scholars over so long a time makes my total candor not only a courtesy but a necessity. I have written the account of my past, including my odd talents and my one encounter with the Witch at Es Castle. I suspect that along with the famed kin lists here, there must also be ancient documents concerning magical matters. Perhaps these folk can help me find some lore related to my betrothal jewel . . . if they choose to allow me access to their archives. I await the dawn with a mixture of impatience and trepidation. My sense of apprehension last night was indeed justified. These Lormt folk were evidently as wary of me as I was of them! After I had eaten a hasty morning meal, Jonja herself conducted me to the larger courtyard building, which proved to be the main scholarly repository. Never before had I seen so many scrolls gathered together in one place. We passed through a warren of study nooks and cubicles, divided and flanked by shelves, with countless tables and desks all heaped with sheafs of writings. Scores of elderly men—and a few women—moved about slowly carrying documents or perching on chairs or benches.