How was such tight control maintained in a land which had no writing?
Such questions were not easily answered and required an informant of unusual thought, willingness and eloquence. Bellamus had to use every advantage at his disposal so that, when one as promising as Adras came along, he was prepared.
He was learning more simply by being north of the Abus, in this place which had seemed so nightmarish from the other side of that dark stretch of water. The southern bank was tilled and manipulated: neat furrows creating levels on which crops could be raised and some measure of order imposed. Here, in the Black Kingdom, the land was so twisted by the roots of giant trees that there could be no hope of tilling it, or perched so steep on the sides of mountains that it was a wonder that earth clung there at all. And yet the Anakim clearly had no difficulty existing here. The forests the Sutherners torched were suffused with ghostly ruins—the stone skeletons of great towns and temples that had sheltered the ancient creatures who lived in these lands. Now the gaping houses were dens for the enormous, short-muzzled bears that terrorised his foraging parties, and the villages had been taken in by the trees, as though in solidarity. They grew around and atop one another, just as the Anakim roads grew around the landscape. They were seldom visible before one had stumbled upon them, and they seemed to go to painstaking lengths to accommodate the hills and trees, not cutting a clean line through the obstacles like many in the south, but twisting around them.
It was a land of unusual intensity, grown from earth so rich that it rotted when overturned. The birds that flew overhead called like phantoms. The cries of the animals that echoed between the trees were so strange that Bellamus was struggling to imagine what sort of beast they might belong to. His sleep, usually so deep and untroubled, was disturbed by exquisite dreams. At night, towering shadows, extraordinary creatures and smells filled his mind. Fear too, was present in his dreams to an extent and clarity that was utterly unknown to him. He would often think he had awoken with a start, only to hear strange, unearthly music beyond the walls of his tent. Three times now, in the dead of night, Bellamus had stumbled through the fluttering tent flap and into the land of silver shadow beyond, seeking the source of that distant music. But every time it had faded slowly, leaving him standing still in a silent and moonlit forest, wondering if the music had just been the afterglow of his bright dreams. It must have been, for each note had been heart-cramping, and Bellamus could remember none of the melody. He was left only with the memory of how it had made him feel.
History was altogether less distant here. In the south, the land was turned over and recycled so quickly, and the dwellings made of materials so readily consumed by earth and fire, that little survived more than a few generations. Bellamus was forced to breathe the Black Kingdom in with every mile he travelled. No matter how much he tried to brand his presence into the north, there was always more forest. Attacking the Black Kingdom was like venting rage on a mountain. It looked on at his efforts, indifferent to them. And look on it did. In some way, this land was powerfully reminiscent of a single organism; one of incalculable age and significance.
Bellamus shook his head, dismissing the encounter with Adras that morning and the alien world outside, and looking back towards his papers. The words written thereon were incomprehensible. Senseless chains of letters, randomly divided into unpronounceable words. Bellamus set down his cup and ran a finger along the top paper, staring up at his own furrowed brow. “Ah!” He glanced around the desk and, from beneath one of the papers, extracted a cracked rectangle of wood, scarcely thicker than the paper before him and with several dozen little windows cut into it. Bellamus laid the wood carefully over the parchment, each of the tiny windows perfectly framing one letter beneath. These letters, read in sequence and with some guesswork as to where the spaces and grammar were supposed to sit, were rendered thus:
My upstart—as requested I have twisted the Royal Arm very hard and you shall not be recalled, nor burdened with another earl. I—
Bellamus flipped the piece of wood over, being careful to hinge it about its lower edge, revealing the lines of text concealed further down the page:
… also seeded the idea of you as Master of the North in the Royal Ear. We will see how it grows. Don’t forget my present. A
Bellamus had many informants, and used many cyphers. This one was reserved exclusively for his correspondence with Aramilla. There were two copies of the piece of wood that Bellamus had used to decode it, and the other was with the queen.
Bellamus did not trust many people. He did not really trust Aramilla either. He knew she felt affection for him (based, he thought, on an interested regard), but he did not believe he was of particular importance to her. She would try to help him because she enjoyed this game and the risk that came with it, and she enjoyed him too. He entertained her, but if he were to task her with anything that might mean sacrificing something she valued, he knew he would face her cold amusement. He could not trust her, but he trusted her subtlety. He had never seen her pour words like wine into the king’s ear, but he had often relied on her efficacy. Once or twice, he had felt the force of those words and had noticed how she steered the conversation in such a way that the thoughts she wanted to plant were never out of place. If
