Mulldoos looked at Braylar, “See, Cap, told you from the beginning, this was a waste-”
“But I am as well equipped as any scholar you could have chosen to read these texts, and while perfect felicity isn’t possible, I am reasonably confident that I have translated them well, and done them no injustice. I simply wanted you to understand that there will be some minor gaps, or variance in interpretation. It can’t be perfect. But I have translated them and translated them well. And I’m positive that what I’ve found, if not wholly complete, is exactly the sort of thing you were hoping might be in these pages.”
I heard Vendurro whistle behind me. No one else made a sound as Mulldoos looked at me a long time, pale eyes hard and unblinking, nostrils flaring a little. “Well then, why didn’t you just say as much from the get-go? Enough with the hemming and hawing, scribbler! What did you plaguing find?”
Braylar couldn’t fight off a small smile, and I held my notes and the original pages in front of me, summing up that this was the personal record of an ambitious underpriest of Truth who was somewhat obsessed with the memory witches he had been hearing so much about. And as it would turn out, he would have quite a bit of experience with them.
Mulldoos interrupted, “See? That’s what you should have led with.”
“When was this, Arki?” Hewspear asked. “Roughly?”
“Judging by other references in the text, this had to be fairly early in the order’s history, as quite a bit of what preceded all the memory witch passages was dealing with the temples establishing their protocols and infrastructure, what they had adopted from other religions that were springing up, and practices they intended to avoid and not repeat. So, though the underpriest never says as much, I’d guess somewhere in the vicinity of eight hundred years or so.”
Mulldoos looked ready to ridicule again, but held his tongue. So I pressed on, “Anroviak spent a lot of time writing about problems his order was facing, both bureaucratic and simply in terms of attracting followers. He laments the recent plague and-”
Vendurro said, “A thousand years, and they plaguing had the plague.”
“Shut it,” Mulldoos said.
“He catalogued all the things that were proving problematic,” I continued, “but finally arrives at the one that seemed to be troubling his order the most, as it was apparently a recent, and unprecedented phenomenon.”
I looked up, feeling a little awkward that all eyes were on me, but also pleased to see that they were, if not rapt and hanging on every word, at least locked in and waiting. But Braylar anticipated where I was going. “Memoridons. Or their forerunners at least, as the Syldoon coined that phrase.”
“That’s right. Memory witches. The populace at large was understandably in an uproar any time there was even a hint of a possible witch being in their midst, stealing their dreams, invading their memories, slithering through their minds.”
Mulldoos said, “You’d think they would have been knocking the temple doors down. Anytime there’s plagues or famines or folks find themselves knee deep in a rising shit river, people look to the gods for help.”
Hewspear replied, “Ahh, but you’re forgetting one thing. This was in the immediate aftermath of the most powerful gods fleeing the world, not only turning their backs on us, but damning us as well. I can see where the people would have been reluctant to place their faith in higher powers again. A thousand years, and the wounds still haven’t healed-I’m sure just then they were gaping and raw.”
“You mouth is gaping and raw. Go on, scribbler.”
I forced myself not to smile, with effort. “Despite the outcry from all corners, Anroviak seemed somewhat sympathetic, at least initially-he didn’t blame the witches directly, but seemed to consider that they might only have been a residual effect of the Deserter Gods, unfortunate souls who had merely been somehow blighted or contaminated in the wake of the gods taking their leave of the world.” I read from my notes: “While I hesitate to grant them any kind of special status or elevate them too far above rabid animals or trees struck by lightning-miserable creatures or things simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, rather than the beneficiaries of any conscious gifts or talents by the gods, old or new-I believe it is a mistake to see them destroyed altogether. This will prove an unpopular position with my brothers, I’m certain, but perhaps there is something to be learned from them’”
Mulldoos laughed-hooted, it was hard to be certain which. “Unpopular? I’d say. Wish to gods here and gone everyone had just stuck to hanging or burning them. Us included.”
Vendurro looked around, no doubt to be sure Soffjian and Skeelana weren’t nearby, though even not seeing them didn’t guarantee they weren’t there.
I explained that some of the next passages were a little murky, quick to point out for Mulldoos’s sake that this was largely due to stained pages and faded ink rather than any limitations of mine as a translator. “As far as I could tell, Anroviak was going into detail describing some of the heated debates he had with other members of his order as he advocated studying the witches rather than simply killing them off. He was met by quite a bit of opposition from his temple brothers, but for reasons he didn’t delve into, it seemed he had the ear of one of the higher priests-at least as far as his own estimation of his importance and worth went, and was allegedly thought of as a reasonable legate in the order.”
“Don’t they all?” Mulldoos said, smirking.
I didn’t point out that the same charge of overestimating our talents or position could be leveled at almost any of us, mostly because it would call my own skills into question again. So I ignored the point and moved on. “Anroviak’s arguments didn’t win over the bulk of his order, but he convinced enough of the important minorities who had clout and sway. While he was charged with destroying any other sorcerers he came across, Anroviak was granted the opportunity to capture and study the memory mages as he saw fit, provided he relayed all his findings.”
“Wait, other sorcerers?” Vendurro asked. “What kinds of other sorcerers are we talking about here?”
Mulldoos said, “The kind that turn dumb people asking dumb questions into slugs or ash.”
Braylar elaborated a little further. “While memory witches have been the prime subject of hatred, fear, and oppression over the centuries, you will on occasion see someone else accused of other forms of witchcraft and nailed to a wall.”
I continued, “The next several chapters in the memoir detailed his mostly failed efforts to track down the dream thieves/memory witches. His soldiers always seemed to arrive too late to rescue the witches before villages or lords killed them, or when they did managed to capture one, they either didn’t possess the powers they were accused of or failed to cooperate.”
“Huh,” Mulldoos said, looking at Braylar. “Fancy that. Never saw that coming in a thousand years.”
Braylar replied, “Ignore the jabbering apes and continue, archivist.”
“Well, Anroviak didn’t give up. He kept capturing, kept experimenting with reluctant witches, challenged them, and when they insisted they couldn’t do what was asked,” I looked at Mulldoos, “the underpriest ordered them cut open, sometimes after he killed them, sometimes when they were still alive. There was mention of skull saws, ribs being extracted and pulled free, and organs poked and prodded and removed. Again, sometimes while the poor wretch still lived.”
Vendurro gave a long, low whistle. “Really took his job all kinds of serious, didn’t he?”