I duck under Nun’s arm and he leaves, pulling the door shut behind me.
Inside, Master Brogal nods me toward a chair and keeps writing, his quill scratching the parchment in an elegant, unhurried script. He’s bent behind his desk and seems to have shrunk since I left for Tangeen. There’s more of his forehead revealed, golden tan contrasting his straight white hair that falls to his shoulders. Is it thinning? Surely, he hasn’t aged so much, but it is a rare chance that I have to study him this closely.
I sit opposite him and wait until he puts down the quill and sets his parchment aside to dry. I’d planned to broach a difficult topic on return, one close to my heart. My apprenticeship is coming to an end, and I want to further my studies, so I might become a wordsmith and take my place as a valued member of the Sanctuary. I’ve rehearsed my request—many times. But doubt floods in at the last second. Maybe this conversation can wait.
“That’s what you said last time…”
Um.
“And the time before that.”
My inner voice is good at keeping track.
Fine. I’ll do it!
Master Brogal temples his fingers and turns his expectant gaze to me. “You found something in the Pandom City archives?”
“Yes, Master.” I pull my satchel into my lap, ready to retrieve the manuscript. “But first, can we discuss my advancement?” I have a whole speech memorized. “As an accomplished wordsmith—”
He cuts me off. “Yes, yes. We’ll deal with that later. What did you find?”
I take a quick breath to recover. I’m disappointed—very disappointed—but I know better than to argue. The High Savant is not a patient man. “I discovered a short children’s poem. Or maybe lyrics.”
He brightens. “Let’s hear it.”
I’ve no idea why Master Brogal has me collecting references to the Mar, the mythical race purported to dwell beneath the sea. He doesn’t believe in them himself—most educated people don’t—but still, he’s instructed me to search for stories in every foreign archive I come across. Not that I mind. It’s fascinating reading, though I’d rather be talking about my future right now, not a fictional past.
Master Brogal taps the desk, waiting.
I locate the manuscript in my satchel and smooth it out flat. “There are several references to the Mar and one to the sacrifices.”
“Child sacrifices?”
“Yes.” My hands go clammy at the thought. “And ships.”
“Black-sailed?”
“Just ships, seen from below. It’s all very oceanic. And something else. I’ve never heard of it before—a Crown of Bones. Shall I read?”
He leans back in his chair and waves for me to carry on, but his mouth dips into a frown.
I translate, getting lost in the rhythm of the words, my eyes dancing with visions of Mar rising from deep-sea grottos, mysterious ships with barnacle-covered hulls, sunlight streaming through kelp gardens, whales singing in the night… I shiver as I come to the last passage.
The persevering sea harbors all things,
Cast adrift beyond sunlight and stone,
While waves queue offshore in glittering strings,
Out on the ebb tide goes our Crown of Bones…
He sits up fast. “Don’t stop.”
“That’s all there is.”
“There must be more.”
“I found notes in the margin of the last page.” I lean in to show him, and he snatches the manuscript out of my hands. “I can’t translate those. Do you recognize the language?”
He stares at the page, moving it closer and then farther away from his face. His eyes widen, but he says nothing.
“Master?”
Finally, he nods. “It’s a Northern Tangeen dialect called Retreen.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a dead language.”
“Someone’s using it,” my inner voice says, which I promptly repeat.
His frown deepens. “The notation is very old, the language no longer active.”
“But what does it say?”
The High Savant runs his nail down the margin. “Nothing of importance.”
“Please can I hear?”
“Very well.” He huffs. “Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers, twenty, and one bull. Piebalds, ten heifers, two with calf…”
I blink. “A livestock list? In a storybook?”
“Not everyone treats records with respect.” He stands, his shimmering red robes sweeping the floor, sleeves falling to his gnarled fingertips. “Anything else?”
“That’s all I found, Master, but about my role in the Sanctuary—”
“I have a class to teach. Bring me the delegate report as soon as possible. That will be all.” He’s out the door in three strides, and I’m left staring at an empty desk.
My eyes start to well, and I exhale sharply, putting a stop to that. The chair scrapes the floor as I rise, shouldering my satchel. “I had a good trip to Tangeen, Master, save for the crossing,” I say to nobody. “There’s little chance of me becoming a seafaring scribe anytime soon. How have you been?” But it’s a conversation we’ll never have. Master Brogal may be my guardian, but he’s no father. Not a warmhearted one, anyway. I’ve known this about him since I was eight years old, but still I yearn for…something more. It’s foolish—I could kick myself—it’s so foolish. I know better than to wish for what I can’t have.
Taking a tie from my wrist, I secure my hair into a small puff of a ponytail. One side escapes and falls against my cheek as the High Savant’s words drift back through my mind.
Short-horn cows, thirty-five. White-face steers…
I stop cold. That can’t be right. Short-horn cattle are a newly recognized breed, crossed from Gollnar dairy stock and…something else? I don’t remember, but the point is, the script in the margin can’t be that old if he’s translating correctly.
“And if he’s not translating correctly?”
The chill deepens. Master Brogal wouldn’t make that mistake unless he had something to hide. But what?
I reach across his desk to inch the manuscript toward me just as Nun comes through the door.
“You’re still here, Ash?”
I jump at his voice and turn to face him. “Just leaving.” The words come out too fast and with too hot a face.