The Inheritance Trilogy Omnibus(13)

“Over here,” Viraine said, heading toward one of the workbenches. Two stools sat in front of it. He chose one of them and patted the other for me. I followed him, but then hesitated.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir.”

He looked surprised, then smiled and gave me an informal, not-quite-mocking half bow. “Ah, yes, manners. I am Viraine, the palace scrivener. Also a relative of yours in some way or another—too distant and convoluted to determine, though Lord Dekarta has seen fit to welcome me into the Central Family.” He tapped the black circle on his forehead.

Scriveners: Amn scholars who made a study of the gods’ written language. This scrivener did not look like the cold-eyed ascetics I’d imagined. He was younger, for one—perhaps a few years younger than my mother had been. Certainly not old enough for such stark white hair. Perhaps he was like T’vril and me, part Amn of a more exotic variety.

“A pleasure,” I said. “Though I cannot help but wonder why the palace needs a scrivener. Why study the gods’ power when you have actual gods right here?”

He looked pleased by my question; perhaps few people asked him about his work. “Well, for one thing, they can’t do everything or be everywhere. There are hundreds of people in this palace using small magics on an everyday basis. If we had to stop and call an Enefadeh every time we needed something, very little would get done. The lift, for example, that carried you to this level of the palace. The air—this far above the ground, it would ordinarily be thin and cold, hard to breathe. Magic keeps the palace comfortable.”

I sat down carefully on one of the stools, eyeing the bench beside me. The items there were laid out neatly: various fine paintbrushes, a dish of ink, and a small block of polished stone, incised on its face with a strange, complicated character of spikes and curlicues. The character was so fundamentally alien, so jarring to the eye, that I could not look at it long. The urge to look away was part of what it was, because it was gods’ language; a sigil.

Viraine sat opposite me while Sieh, unbidden, claimed a seat across the bench and rested his chin on his folded arms.

“For another thing,” Viraine continued, “there are certain magics that even the Enefadeh cannot perform. Gods are peculiar beings, incredibly powerful within their sphere of influence, so to speak, but limited beyond that. Nahadoth is powerless by day. Sieh cannot be quiet and well-behaved unless he’s up to something.” He eyed Sieh, who gave us both an innocent smile. “In many ways, we mortals are more… versatile, for lack of a better term. More complete. For example, none of them can create or extend life. The simple act of having children—something any unlucky barmaid or careless soldier can do—is a power that has been lost to the gods for millennia.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sieh’s smile fade.

“Extend life?” I had heard rumors about what some scriveners did with their powers—terrible, foul rumors. It occurred to me suddenly that my grandfather was very, very old.

Viraine nodded, his eyes twinkling at the disapproval in my tone. “It is the great quest of our profession. Someday we might even achieve immortality…” He read the horror in my face and smiled. “Though that goal is not without controversy.”

My grandmother had always said the Amn were unnatural people. I looked away. “T’vril said you were going to mark me.”

He grinned, openly amused now. Laughing at the prudish savage. “Mmm-hmm.”

“What does this mark do?”

“Keeps the Enefadeh from killing you, among other things. You’ve seen what they can be like.”

I licked my lips. “Ah. Yes. I… didn’t know they were…” I gestured vaguely, unsure how to say what I meant without offending Sieh.

“Running around loose?” Sieh asked brightly. There was a wicked look in his eye; he was enjoying my discomfiture.

I winced. “Yes.”

“Mortal form is their prison,” Viraine said, ignoring Sieh. “And every soul in Sky, their jailer. They are bound by Bright Itempas to serve the descendants of Shahar Arameri, His greatest priestess. But since Shahar’s descendants now number in the thousands…” He gestured toward the windows, as if the whole world was one clan. Or perhaps he simply meant Sky, the only world that mattered to him. “Our ancestors chose to impose a more orderly structure on the situation. The mark confirms for the Enefadeh that you’re Arameri; without it they will not obey you. It also specifies your rank within the family. How close you are to the main line of descent, I mean, which in turn dictates how much power you have to command them.”