It was an animal of some sort, small and lithe. After drinking from the pool, it scampered around the fountain then, at a gesture from Auraya, slunk reluctantly back into her bag.
Reivan found herself thinking of something a Servant in the monastery she had grown up in had told her once. “
Auraya and Nekaun moved out of sight. Reivan sighed. If Nekaun did manage to “seduce” Auraya would she stay here in Glymma? If so, she would not be embraced by most Pentadrians. She had, after all, struck the blow that had killed Kuar and won the war for the Circlians. She would have no friends here.
Imenja abruptly moved away from the window. “When I do meet with her, I want you with me to help translate.”
Reivan followed her mistress to the chairs.
“I’ll be there. Not sure if I’m looking forward to being in her presence, but I’m sure it will be interesting.”
Imenja’s mouth twisted into a half-smile.
“Yes, but interesting isn’t always pleasant.”
Emerahl approached the library door slowly, concentrating her senses on what lay beyond. She sensed only a handful of minds. Some were dark with annoyance and skepticism, others curious. One was a little more familiar than the rest, and full of anticipation.
He had pounced on her in the market, seemingly oblivious to her embarrassment at being discovered selling cures, and invited her to meet with the Thinkers again as soon as she was able. They had arranged a time for that afternoon, and she had returned to her room to deposit her cure bag and collect the fake scrolls.
Taking hold of the handle, she twisted it and felt the latch slide free. The door swung inward easily. She stepped into the library and closed the door behind her.
The librarian regarded her suspiciously over the same pile of scrolls she had seen him cataloguing last time. She ignored him and walked to the end of the room. The same five men sat in the same positions.
Ray stood up and smiled. “Greetings. Thank you for returning. Here,” he gestured to an empty chair. “Please sit down.”
She sat where he indicated and looked around at the faces.
“This is Emmea Startracker, in case you didn’t catch the name last time,” Ray said to the other men. He gestured at each man in turn, beginning with the larger. “This is Barmonia Tithemaster, our leader and expert in history and old languages. This is Mikmer Lawmaker, another historian. Kereon Cupman, finder and collector of artifacts, and Yathyir Gold, who has a flawless memory for facts.”
He then placed a hand on his chest. “I am Raynora Vorn and I’ve spent too much time studying dead gods and their followers.”
She did her best to look impressed. “With such qualifications I would be surprised if none of you could help me with this scroll.” She lifted the box.
“Well show us then,” Barmonia said, holding his hands out.
As she gave him the box her heart began to beat faster. Though The Twins had guided her in making the scroll, they hadn’t actually seen them with their own eyes. They looked convincing enough to Emerahl, but these men were experts.
Barmonia opened the box and gently lifted out the roll of parchment. He unrolled it slightly and a fine dust wafted off. His eyebrows rose, then his eyes moved back and forth as he scanned the glyphs.
Abruptly he stood up and moved to a table. There he weighed down the corners of the scroll and carefully rolled it opened further. As the other men rose and walked over to watch, Emerahl followed them.
“This means ‘priest,’ ” Barmonia said, pointing to a glyph. “And this ‘most favored’ or ‘special.’ ” He paused.
“It says ‘... the goddess ordered her favorite priest to write her words on a scroll...,’ ” Emerahl told him.
A tense silence followed, then Barmonia sighed heavily. “You can read this?”
“Yes. I don’t understand some of it. What does ‘breath offering’ mean?”
Barmonia smiled. “To offer your last breath to the goddess. Which is just another way to declare oneself a follower in the hope a god or goddess will take your soul when you die.”
Emerahl nodded. “I see. I was a bit worried it meant voluntary strangulation or something similar.”
“When it comes to history it is all too easy for the imagination of the untrained to blur the truth. Especially with young women.”
Emerahl met his eyes and held them. The man’s face began to redden. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“We’re all very impressed, Emmea,” Ray said. “Would you read out the entire scroll for us?”
She turned her attention back to the roll of parchment, stepping closer to Barmonia. It was supposed to be a scrap of a record of the priests of the goddess Sorli, and the information was all accurate according to The Twins. When she had read it out the men were thoughtfully silent.
“Well then, what else can we get her to read?” Ray asked.
Barmonia sighed. “Bring out the bones.”
“Bones?” Emerahl asked.
Ray smiled but did not answer. She watched as Kereon and Mikmer disappeared through a door and returned carefully carrying a long, heavy box between them. They placed it on the table and Barmonia lifted the lid.
Emerahl did not have to fake her surprise. Within was a skeleton. That was not surprising. The Twins had told her the Thinkers believed that there was significance in “a lot of old bones.” But they didn’t understand what it was because the Thinkers didn’t.
The bones were covered in glyphs. As Ray picked one up and handed it to her she saw that the symbols had been carved into the surface, then painted black. She stared at them in wonder.
“Where did you find this?”
“Dug up in an old temple,” Kereon said lightly. “This man must have been very important.”
She looked down into the box, read the rest of the glyphs and nodded.
“He was. This was the last favored priest of the goddess Sorli.”
And the glyphs confirmed the Scroll’s existence and location... but she wasn’t going to tell them the latter.
“Read,” Barmonia said in a low voice.
“The glyphs on the skull say: ‘I am the favored priest of the goddess Sorli.’ On the right arm it says: ‘To me are entrusted the secrets of the gods.’ Not ‘god;’ it is the plural form. On the left it says: ‘Seek the truth in the sacred chamber when the gods are most...’ Hmm, ‘occupied’ is the closest translation.” She chuckled. “A riddle. I so love it when there’s a riddle. The legs say: ‘Sorli will direct the way. A mortal may enter and take the secrets.’ ” She paused.
“Is that it?” Barmonia asked.
“No, there are glyphs on the ribs. Are they in the right order?”
The men exchanged looks of dismay. None were experts on anatomy, she knew.
“What do they say? Maybe we can work out their order.”
She gave them enough words to describe the place named on the ribs, but not the directions. “If arranged
