“Maybe it is a chest,” Avena said. “What if the two parts unspool to reveal contents being protected and preserved?”
“Perhaps,” Dualayn said. “I suspect this is what Naynee Guhin referred to as a Recorder in his Treaties on the Anteshattering Civilization. We’re standing over the ruins of one of the great cities. Perhaps lost Koilon.”
Avena swallowed, her eyes flicking to the hard-packed earth and the hole that led down into the library. It was strange down there, the floor smooth beneath the dust. It looked like the stone had been poured. They hadn’t explored far before finding the artifact sitting amid the collapsed ruin of a table.
“A Recorder?” asked Avena, her mouth suddenly dry. “What does it . . . record?”
“Knowledge,” said Dualayn. He ran a soft finger across the surface, his eyes trembling. Hope burned in them. He plucked his monocle from the dark waistcoat he wore buttoned over his portly frame. He placed the glass lens, attached to a chain of fine gold, before his right eye. He squinted to hold it in place as he leaned forward.
“You think this will save her, Father?” Avena asked, trembles racing through her slender body.
“I can only hope.” With a careful caress, he stroked an exposed bit of gold wire.
Light blazed from the heart of the Recorder. Avena gasped, stepping back two steps, her head brushing the sloping roof of the canvas tent. From the top of the device, a beam of golden light somehow made a ball of liquid radiance. It rippled for a moment, then curious symbols appeared on it, glyphs or letters that appeared to be pressable buttons.
“Old Tonal,” whispered Dualayn as he leaned forward. “The precursor to our modern alphabet. See there, the shape of that letter is reminiscent of our G. And there, the sweep of that . . . Can you see the S in it?”
Avena swallowed, leaning forward. Her heart leaped with joy. If this could hold the knowledge of restoring Bravine Dashvin’s mind, it would revolutionize the burgeoning field of jewelchine healing. New methods to reverse injuries too severe for Dualayn’s inventions to cure. Or the ability to fix deformations and congenital defects the topazes didn’t affect.
“My child, I think—”
“Trouble,” rumbled Ni’mod.
Avena squeaked. She’d forgotten their hulking bodyguard stood at the tent’s entrance. He’d shown no interest in the Recorder after setting it on the table. Instead, he stood with the stoic presence of a weathered boulder, all muscles and brutal strength. A faint curl of steam rose off his bare, ebony chest, especially from the deep scars crossing his torso. His green eyes, the bright color contrasting with his dark skin, almost seemed to blaze.
“Armed men approach. I smell blood on them.”
“Oh, dear,” Dualayn said.
Chapter Two
“Come on, you pus-filled roaches,” snarled Ust, ripping his backsword from its sheath, the blade edged on only one side, the crossguard bent and dented. “Let’s go squeeze the orange out of that fat scholar.”
Orange? Two years living among the heathens of Arngelsh, drifting from Ondere to his present life in Lothon, and Ōbhin still shook his head at the nonsense he heard. Why would you squeeze orange from him?
The rest of the highwaymen charged through the bloody brush, blue-gray smoke drifting around Carstin’s head. Out of habit, Ōbhin jogged after, his chainmail rattling. Brush whipped at his knee-high leather boots. He ducked a branch, its leaves ruffling his straight-black hair. His gloved hand gripped the emerald pommel of his tulwar.
Why am I doing this?
It was a question he’d asked himself a thousand times. The path of his life had always been clear, the goal in sight. He had marched towards it with confidence since his tenth spring. He’d lost it two years ago, his harmony dissonant now. Not trumpeting with the Seven Tones, but screeching with the Black.
The strongarm Handsome Baill had mentioned stepped out of the tent, his skin darker than Ōbhin’s. A rich ebony, his bare chest steaming. It was early spring, winter’s bite lingering in the air. Not that the Lothonians knew real winter.
Ōbhin frowned at the bare-chested warrior marching forward, a sword hanging from a red sash. The strongarm’s boots stomped across the torn grass of the clearing, kicking up loose clods of disturbed dirt. He snorted a massive cloud of vapor.
“Cut down that bugger!” Ust roared as the highwaymen broke into a charge.
Ōbhin jogged faster, trailing behind them. The ebony man stood between the bandits and the tent where a young woman’s head peeked out, light-brown hair pulled back from her pale face. The sight of the guard lacking any fear unnerved Ōbhin. His skin marked him as a Shattered Islander or hailing from one of the southern nations like Relasi or Ki’mana. That itched a warning at Ōbhin. His mind felt dulled, rusty. Something was off about this entire moment, but the bandits hurtled towards the brute like the floodwaters pouring from the glaciers during the spring melt. Frothy destruction that no force could stop.
Certainly not one man, no matter his skill.
The weight in Ōbhin’s stomach increased.
Jimet reached the warrior first, the slender man outpacing the others. He raised his own backsword and swung the tarnished weapon at the ebony hulk. The steam seemed to burst from the man.
Why is he steaming? screamed through Ōbhin’s mind as his legs stretched out before him. He ate up the distance now.
In a blur of motion, the hulk whipped his sword from its sash. Ōbhin, despite his practice on the training sands of the Satrap’s palace, could barely follow the motion. The blurring attack struck Jimet on the shoulder and cut deep into his collarbone. The blade split through his back, severing ribs. His strike
