“And if not?” one of the thirteen asked.
He shrugged. “Then not. Aer will decide.”
Events shifted within the delve again, and Pellin skipped along Igesia’s countless memories of days spent in observation of the Maveth Desert, its borders mapped so accurately he could almost pick the exact grains of sand that marked the boundary.
Pellin came out of the delve, shaking his head, prepared to speak, but Igesia still held his wrist and seemed in no hurry to leave his mind. Observation. Inwardly he sighed. His temperament ran more toward thought, but perhaps in this, Igesia saw more clearly than he. He placed his hand on the wrinkled skin once more.
A woman stood before him in the failing light of day. Despite her diminutive size, massive ropes as thick as hawsers bound her chest and limbs. At his side, three of the southern Vigil stood ready. Almawt, almost as old in the gift as he, stepped forward with the aid of the other two, his face a portrait in suffering.
“Are you convinced of the necessity of this?” Fatalan asked.
She hadn’t directed her question to any of them in particular, and though he occupied the position of Honored One, it wasn’t his place to answer, so he waited for Almawt to summon energy and composure enough to respond. “Necessity?” His pain turned the word into a growl. “I’m too old to pretend to such wisdom. Just as well to ask the desert. But whatever end comes to me will be a relief.”
“Would not a draught of paverin help you in your task?” Fatalan persisted.
Almawt managed a smile, though his eyes continued to speak of torment. “The wasting disease is almost done with me, sister. I do not wish my last memories to be clouded by the drug.” He stumped forward until he was within arm’s reach of the tightly bound girl—and he waited.
At the last, the light fled and the shadows jumped. The girl’s eyes dilated until the blue of her irises had all but disappeared. She blinked once and threw herself against her restraints, her lips pulled back from her teeth as she worked to attack Igesia’s dying friend.
He worked his way around her and placed one bare hand on her neck and jerked, the reflex curve of his old man’s back bending the wrong way. Igesia watched his eyes, but no sign showed his experience. Almawt’s body continued to jerk, flinching as though he fought physical attacks within the girl’s mind.
Without warning, he dropped, his hand falling away from the girl to clutch at his chest. Igesia leapt forward to come within their circle and reached for his friend, desperate to know his last thoughts. Warning cries surrounded him. It was death to be caught within the delve of the dying, and Almawt had obviously breathed his last, but his gaze shifted, struggling to focus. There were still fractions of a moment left before his light fled. Igesia’s hand brushed the skin of Almawt’s face.
He found Almawt waiting for him within his mind. “Words,” he said. Around them, thousands upon thousands of memories accumulated over a life of hundreds of years flooded out from behind their doors to flare and die. “There are words within the words.” An image of black writing appeared before him, a flash of utter blackness against the encroaching night of death.
Igesia broke the delve as Almawt’s last memories flared into nothingness. When he looked down, his friend’s eyes stared fixedly at a point beyond the horizon. The girl still struggled to free herself from her bonds, but her target had shifted. She no longer attempted to reach Almawt, but sought Igesia.
Pellin released his delve with Igesia once more, but this time he found the leader of the southern Vigil waiting for him, composed, but smiling as if he’d just shared his favorite jest. “Words within words,” Pellin echoed. “Almawt’s memories of the writing are different, but what does it mean?”
“I have often wondered as much my friend,” Igesia said. Pellin watched Igesia’s mirth drop away. “The writing seen from outside the scroll is different than from inside.” He nodded toward Mark and Elieve. “And the writing on the exterior of her scroll different still, though the markings appear to be the same language.” The leader of the southern Vigil worked himself to a standing position on his frail, skinny legs and turned to face Mark. Slowly, as though acknowledging an equal, he bowed. “Do you know what you have made possible, young Mark?”
When Mark shook his head, Igesia smiled. “Here on the southern continent we have a saying that the subtlety of Aer is beyond reckoning. You have redeemed Elieve from the death that had claimed her, but what is more, she holds within her a black scroll.”
“She has been touched by the Darkwater,” Pellin said, “but we have seen many in the north with such.”
Igesia, reseated, leaned forward, his old man’s eyes avid. “And how does the writing on their scroll appear?”
Pellin’s heart quickened as he replayed the memories of every scroll he’d seen. “The same,” he whispered. “It’s always the same.” His exhilaration faded. “But we can’t read it. We’re no better off than we were before.”
Igesia shook his head. “No, my friend. There is something different at work here. Never has the desert spoken before, nor the forest, if your memories are true.” He looked at Dukasti. “Prepare yourself, my young heir. Tonight I will attempt what Almawt attempted before me.”
Chapter 41
“Must you do this?” Pellin asked. “You could summon another to delve her.”
Igesia cackled as
