Chronicles of the Last Days

Chapter 1-2

“Priestesses as slaves. After Tiadun’s prince was killed last year and his brother’s Cerean allies settled in, almost all of the province’s priestesses disappeared from Tiadun. One hopes that they went to the hills, but one fears –”

Myril nodded. “Some of them have come to Ara’s Landing,” she said. “I think that most of them are safe, but I can’t blame them for leaving.” What would be the purpose, when there was no dragon to call up in the rite? The prince of Tiadun had been killed on a boar hunt. It had been an attempt to take the throne, and he might have succeeded except that his old brother’s mistress had come to Anamat to state her case – that Calar, as a murderer, could not succeed his brother, and that the prince had sired a child, albeit a girl, one who happened to be a friend of Myril’s. In the ordinary course of things, the old governor’s mistress and her fellow priestesses would have ruled while the succession was decided, but instead, Calar and his allies had run them out of the province.

Outside, a tile slid off a roof and shattered on the paving stones below.

The guildmaster glanced over his shoulder, as if giving a nod to the outside world. “I worry for the priestesses, but I summoned you in hopes that they could help us. You say this morning’s quake is the dragons’ work?”

“Salara’s. Salara has become male, like Na. I think the scream came from those hills.”

“Most interesting!” The guildmaster seemed strangely delighted by the news.

“It sounded as if the mountains were falling there. I can’t be sure, but someone is bound to come across the mountains to bring the news before long.”

“Soon enough,” the Chronicler agreed. “In any case, I called you here to help me keep the scrolls – our rarer and more secret ones – out of the governor’s palace. I’d hoped that the Aralel would house them in the temple. It’s on lower ground than we are, but the library tower is high. I believe they’ll be safer there than here.”

“A little bit safer,” Myril said. Tiagasa still had eyes and ears in the temple, but not the unchecked power she and the governor had in the palace.

The guildmaster sighed. “We should wait to see if the waters go back down or rise further. That might change things. Meanwhile, ask the Aralel if she can help us, and look for any other safe place where we might keep our scrolls. I don’t think the Cereans will cease their grasping if they see us floundering. If we are drowning, it will only bring them faster.”

The Cereans would swoop in like vultures, joined by the Ganateans and maybe even Enomaeans. Myril shivered at the thought, glad that her room was on the second story and halfway up a hill. She could see the waters clearly in her mind’s eye. They would not draw back. She wished she was blind to all of it and far from the city, but she would not go to the hills where Na, the wild dragon, reigned.

The guildmaster got to his feet and brushed himself off. “I leave you to it,” he said. “Now I must see to our guildhall and to our Lord Governor.”

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The streets were disheveled but all in their places. Shopkeepers were sweeping their stoops and neighbors gathered, whispering and pointing to the roofs, discussing beams, cracks in the walls, and where any laborers or tradesmen might be found, whether it was worth paying their fees with the ground still unsteady beneath them.

A scrappling hurried through the square with a soggy satchel on her back, eyes wary, looking for a new place to hide. Myril paused as a half-dozen Cerean sailors sauntered up to the scrappling, speaking excitedly among themselves. They pushed one of their number forward as the others circled to block the girl’s way.

“Little girl,” the man said with a toothy smile.

“I’m not a little girl,” the scrappling mumbled. She tried to back away but one of the other sailors pushed her forward again.

“Come with us, little girl. We go to a place where there is solid ground. You can have a nice bed, like priestesses.” He chuckled as the girl looked for an opening. The circle of sailors closed tighter around her.

The scrappling girl spat on the ground and cursed them. The neighbors seemed too preoccupied with their own troubles to hear what was happening already. How could they not see? Myril’s hands shook and her pulse quickened. She wanted to run away, but the scrappling needed help and fear froze her in her tracks. Maybe she could do something. The morning’s quake had shaken the bonds that held the city together in more ways than one. She turned to face them, resolving to break in and at least distract the sailors.

One of the men – not the one who spoke Theranian – was grabbing the scrappling by her upper arm when a shout startled them all, a command in the Cereans’ language. The sailors backed away from their prey and turned to face the newcomer. He was a Theranian, dressed in a strange combination of clothes – a Cerean tunic and a Ganatean scarf with Anamat-made sandals and belt, all of the finest workmanship. At his next command, the sailors bobbed their heads and hurried away in the direction of the harbor.

Myril knew him; she had touched him once, a long time ago. She shuddered at the memory of falling into the rite until the trance swallowed her whole and would not release her. The man had been naked then except for a petitioner’s loose-wrapped cloth. Even the sight of him made Myril feel the old tug of trance. She turned away but it was too late – he’d seen her, recognized her.

“Is that you, Blessed One?” he asked. As he approached her, he lost all the air of command he’d had a moment before.

“I don’t take that title anymore. I haven’t for a long time.” Myril focused on the small but solid things around her, like the details of the splatter of mud on the paving stones, the way the sunlight struck the rooftops.

“You should not be walking alone,” he said.

Myril laughed at that. How else would she walk? “You sound like a Cerean, Lerat.”

He smiled. “You do remember me, then. I’ve been a long time in their country, but as you can see, I’ve returned.” A look of concern crossed his face. “They want what we have, and I don’t want to see my homeland destroyed, not even the scrapplings. Especially not the scrapplings. I remember being one myself. No Theranian child should go with Cerean slavers like those.”

“They followed your command.”

He shrugged. “I can stop a few for now. They know a captain when they see one, but if more come –” He looked around and shook his head. “When word of this quake reaches Cerea, I fear that looters will take their chances with the governor and their king. Some of the merchants have been talking of raiding Anamat for years now. The governor’s guardsmen and the city watch aren’t strong or numerous enough hold them off. ”

“They’re only meant to dissuade pickpockets and keep the bandits to the hills,” Myril said.

“Exactly. Our governor wouldn’t be able to stop them even if he wanted to try.”

Myril thought then of the Chronicles and what might happen to them if the waters continued to rise or if looters overran the city. She looked at Lerat again, more closely. The dragons might be out of sight, but perhaps they had sent him to cross her path for some purpose. She should not shrink away from the chance. Lerat was still handsome, but the sun had beaten many lines into his visage since the last time she’d seen him. She felt the distance in his eyes, the oceans he’d crossed more casually than she crossed the canal. He looked different. Years had passed, but he had pledged to help her if she ever had need. The texts were the guild’s work, not her own, and he would not be obliged to help. Perhaps she shouldn’t ask, after all.

“I have to be going. I’m sure you do, too.”

He smiled at her, an open, friendly smile. “At the moment, I’m in no hurry,” he said. “Let me walk with you.”

Myril could think of no good reason to refuse his offer. It would be easy enough to find her if he wanted to – the place she lived was no secret. He held his hand out to take her arm, but she whisked it away before he could make contact.

“Don’t touch me, please. You remember what it’s like for me?”

“Still?” he asked. “That’s a pity.”

It wasn’t a crossing time but she didn’t want to risk being towed under in trance, with the world so unsteady around her and marauding Cereans waiting to take any priestess – or even scrapplings – away into slavery.

“I only touch others as I must, as a healer.”

“You’re a healer?” Lerat said. “That’s a good trade.”

“I’m also a Chronicler,” she said, indicating her ink-black robes.

At that, he only nodded, indicating that she was to lead the way. They set off at a brisk pace over Guild Bridge, which held steady though it was still wet from the errant wave that had run up the canal. As they reached the top of the fortune-tellers’ street, Myril decided to ask Lerat for that favor anyway.

“I know very little about the world beyond our shores,” she said. “Are there libraries in other lands? Preferably out of reach of the Cerean king.”

They stopped walking while Lerat considered the question. From where they stood, they had a good view down to the harbor. It was different from how it had been at dawn. The ships lay close to where they’d been, except for the ones that had been tied to the docks. Those had moved out to anchor. Sailors scurried over them, making repairs and bailing water out of their bilges.

“There must be libraries,” he said after a while. “I’ve never traded much in texts, mostly in the crafts of Anamat, the gold of Cerea, spices from Enomae, and sometimes marble from Ganat. It depends on the season and the prices. I will make inquiries about libraries. I believe there are some in Enomae, away from the coast.”

Myril spoke quietly. “We need some safe place to save the histories, and the texts which teach some of the priestesses’ arts. The Cerean king – I believe he means to use them to try to control us. You would not have that, would you?”

Lerat shook his head. “No. I’ve lived in Cerea, and it’s a good enough place in some ways, but they will grasp at everything and everyone that might give them a bit more power over other nations. They think only of military might in Cerea, to the detriment of their…well, of their relations with women.”

Myril nodded. “They don’t understand what we are.”

“Not at all,” he said. “It would be best for the wisdom of Anamat to remain here, safe from them.”

“If the land lasts, yes, but if all of Theranis falls into the sea, as Slaradun did –”

Lerat placed his hand on her arm to stop her, and she felt a jolt like fire. She heard him apologize through the fog clouding her vision.

“What is this you say about Slaradun falling into the sea?” he was asking. Myril pulled herself back to the present, one breath at a time. “Is it worse than this rising of the seas in Anamat?”

“It is only visions now,” Myril said, not looking at him. “I don’t know exactly what happened. In a few days, I expect that we’ll see people who have come from there, who can tell us what they saw.”

“A few days?”

“It’s three or four days’ walk from here to the far side of the mountains.”

“I can’t stay that long,” Lerat said with a frown. “I must sail to Ganat and back before Midsummer. I was going to leave this morning, but then this.” He gestured to the harbor. “That’s my ship, there.” He pointed to one of the ones being bailed out. “I think we will sail on the next tide. When I return, seek me out. I’ll be back in a moon-round.”

“It will be nearly Midsummer then,” Myril said.

“That’s why I must sail today,” Lerat said. His hands were thick; they looked strong, but he seemed like a kind man. Her memory of the fear of trance had obscured those other memories of him. “Let us go on,” he said.

They started down the street. Many of Myril’s neighbors were still outside, bedclothes wrapped around them, talking in tight knots, wary. Some turned to look at Lerat. Even Myril, who did not like to lie with men, could tell that he was uncommonly handsome.

“You’ve been in Cerea,” she said. “Do you know anything of this Girizit who has the governor’s ear?”

Lerat frowned and looked around. “Yes, everyone in Cerea does, but I won’t speak of it today. I’ll tell you some of what I know when we meet again, and if I can discover and of these libraries you seek.”

It was a bribe, to make her seek him out when he returned, but a fair enough one. Myril nodded.

“I hope that you will accept my hospitality,” he said. “I invite you to dine aboard my ship when I return at Midsummer, if you don’t mind going on the water.”

Myril had, as a young priestess, been especially prone to trance around water, whether it was a bath or a fountain. For a while, it had had such a strong pull on her that she couldn’t even drink plain water. She was surprised that he’d remembered that.

“It doesn’t matter if I mind the water; it’s coming anyway,” she said. She stiffened her thoughts against the tide of visions.

“Ask for me at Merchants’ Wharf, if it’s still there in a moon-round,” Lerat said.

They had reached the entrance to Myril’s place. “I’ll come look for you,” she promised.

“I would like to tell you more about your man at the palace,” he said.

Standing beside him felt like balancing on a leaky raft with the waters of trance shimmering all around. Myril couldn’t summon her voice again until he was gone halfway down to the bridge. There, he greeted an acquaintance in the Cerean manner, shaking his hand, then steering the man away from the street of frail former priestesses and healers, across newly placed planks to the still-dry arch of the bridge.

The clusters of gossiping neighbors began to break apart as frantic citizens arrived, seeking splints and bandages from minor injuries from the quake, but more than that, they sought to have their fortunes cast. Broken jars lay where they’d fallen along with roof tiles that had slid down from their perches. Myril went inside, hoping to shut it all out.

Her door was still latched, but the narrow stair up to it was crowded with people wanting to see her. One had a broken arm, another a case of fainting, and ten people sought prophecies. She set the broken arm and gave the fainting girl a bundle of herbs to brew, then sent the rest away and barred the door.

From her window, she could see that the water had risen just to the underside of the bridge’s arch. The scrapplings who had always camped there were flooded out. Myril and her friends had sheltered there when they’d first come to Anamat. Since then, the bridge had sheltered one group of scrapplings after another. It was a way station, the way into the city, and it was gone. No one would ever find shelter there again. Myril felt sure that she would lose every dwelling she’d ever had in Anamat. She would be cast out on the sea, at the mercy of Lerat, or worse. She shuddered. Better Lerat than any of the others.

One of the ships in the harbor was setting sail; she could hear the sound of its going. Along with the sailors, some dozen or more Theranians crowded the decks, sitting on hastily packed trunks and bags.

“Where are we going?” one of them asked.

“Does it matter? I don’t want to drown.”

“We could drown as easily on a ship, more easily,” complained a woman.

“We’re going to Enomae,” said another woman, her voice determined. “They say they have weavers there. I can be a weaver as easily as I can in Anamat, and no Cereans trying to take me slave.”

“You’re sure these aren’t slavers?” one man asked.

“They’ve never been before,” yet another person answered. “We have to take our chances with someone.”

Myril turned her ears away from the harbor. She was not ready to say her farewells to Anamat yet.

#

Those were only the first to go. As the moon waned, more and more Theranians set sail on fishermen’s boats and trading ships. Word came back that some of them had settled in Calandria, others in a large town in Ganat. If any went to Cerea, ancient enemy of the priestesses, no word came back from them. Rumors filled the streets as ships filled the harbor. Houses were abandoned and filled again, shops boarded up one day only to be opened again the next.

The first survivors from Slaradun reached the Anamat valley at the end of the third day after the quake, saying that the dragons’ anger had come from those hills. People stood in long lines before the street-corner shrines and at the temples to leave offerings and to beg the dragons for peace – and protection – but the dragons did not listen, or at least did not deign to grant those requests. The merchants in the dockside markets and the apprentices of the Ropers’ Guild sold passage across the sea to all who came with enough good Anamat beads or, better yet, Cerean gold. The temple’s oracles said that the rising water would stop where it was, but not everyone believed them.

Myril avoided going to the temple, telling herself that she was not yet sure if the waters would rise or fall, or if the temple would be a safe place for the texts at all. The Aralel had troubles enough of her own. Petitioners crowded the temples, begging to know why the wrath of the dragons was upon them, as if it were a mystery. Myril didn’t think that the Aralel could save the Chronicles even if she had the time to find a safe place for them. Anamat was shifting – how could there be any safe place in the city?

Across the seas, foreigners might try to steal the dragons’ power, but if the dragons were gone, and the priestesses went another way, then at least some faraway library might be able to house the histories. Lerat’s appearance had been a sign. Despite the threat of trance whenever he was near, Myril decided that she trusted him.

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