‘Before the Duke closed the library,’ Ronnell said, ‘some people were obsessed with Thesa, and with soliciting monies to hire Messengers to contact lost dots on the maps.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Arlen asked.
‘The king is three centuries dead, Arlen,’ Ronnell said, ‘and the dukes will make war before they bend knee to anyone but themselves. Talk of reunification reminds people of things they ought not remember.’
‘Better to pretend that the walls of Miln are the entire world?’ Arlen asked.
‘Until the Creator forgives us and sends his Deliverer to end the Plague,’ Ronnell said.
‘Forgives us for what?’ Arlen asked. ‘What plague?’
Ronnell looked at Arlen, his eyes a mix of shock and indignation. For a moment, Arlen thought the Tender might strike him. He steeled himself for the blow.
Instead, Ronnell turned to his daughter. ‘Can he really not know?’ he asked in disbelief.
Mery nodded. ‘The Tender in Tibbet’s Brook was … unconventional,’ she said.
Ronnell nodded. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘He was an acolyte whose master was cored, and never completed his training. We always meant to send someone new …’ He strode to his desk and began penning a letter. ‘This cannot stand,’ he said. ‘What plague, indeed!’
He continued to grumble, and Arlen took it as a cue to edge for the door.
‘Not so fast, you two,’ Ronnell said. ‘I’m very disappointed in you both. I know Cob is not a religious man, Arlen, but this level of negligence is really quite unforgivable.’ He looked to Mery. ‘And you, young lady!’ he snapped. ‘You knew this, and did nothing?’
Mery looked at her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said.
‘And well you should be,’ Ronnell said. He drew a thick volume from his desk and handed it to his daughter. ‘Teach him,’ he commanded, handing her the Canon. ‘If Arlen doesn’t know the book back and forth in a month, I’ll take a strap to both of you!’
Mery took the book, and both of them scampered out as quickly as possible.
‘We got off pretty easy,’ Arlen said.
‘Too easy,’ Mery agreed. ‘Father was right. I should have said something sooner.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Arlen said. ‘It’s just a book. I’ll have it read by morning.’
‘It’s not just a book!’ Mery snapped. Arlen looked at her curiously.
‘It’s the word of the Creator, as penned by the first Deliverer,’ Mery said.
Arlen raised an eyebrow. ‘Honest word?’ he asked.
Mery nodded. ‘It’s not enough to read it. You have to live it. Every day. It’s a guide to bring humanity from the sin that brought about the Plague.’
‘What plague?’ Arlen asked for what felt like the dozenth time.
‘The demons, of course,’ Mery said. ‘The corelings.’
Arlen sat on the library’s roof a few days later, his eyes closed as he recited:
‘And man again became prideful and bold,
Turning ’gainst Creator and Deliverer.
He chose not to honour Him who gave life,
Turning his back upon morality.
Man’s science became his new religion,
Replacing prayer with machine and chemic,
Healing those meant to die,
He thought himself equal to his maker.
Brother fought brother, to benefit none.
Evil lacking without, it grew within,
Taking seed in the hearts and souls of men,
Blackening what was once pure and white.
And so the Creator, in His wisdom,
Called down a plague upon his lost children,
Opening the Core once again,
To show man the error of his ways.
And so it shall be,
Until the day He sends the Deliverer anew.
For when the Deliverer cleanses man,
Corelings will have naught to feed upon.
And lo, ye shall know the Deliverer
For he shall be marked upon his bare flesh
And the demons will not abide the sight
And they shall flee terrified before him.’
‘Very good!’ Mery congratulated with a smile.
Arlen frowned. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Mery said.
‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked. ‘Tender Harral always said the Deliverer was just a man. A great general, but a mortal man. Cob and Ragen say so, too.’
Mery’s eyes widened. ‘You’d best not let my father hear you say that,’ she warned.
‘Do you believe the corelings are our own fault?’ Arlen asked. ‘That we deserve them?’
‘Of course I believe,’ she said. ‘It is the word of the Creator.’
‘No,’ Arlen said. ‘It’s a book. Books are written by men. If the Creator wanted to tell us something, why would he use a book, and not write on the sky with fire?’
‘It’s hard sometimes to believe there’s a Creator up there, watching,’ Mery said, looking up at the sky, ‘but how could it be otherwise? The world didn’t create itself. What power would wards hold, without a will behind creation?’
‘And the Plague?’ Arlen asked.
Mery shrugged. ‘The histories tell of terrible wars,’ she said. ‘Maybe we did deserve it.’
‘Deserve it?’ Arlen demanded. ‘My mam did not deserve to die because of some stupid war fought centuries ago!’
‘Your mother was taken?’ Mery asked, touching his arm. ‘Arlen, I had no idea …’
Arlen yanked his arm away. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said, storming towards the door. ‘I have wards to carve, though I hardly see the point, if we all deserve demons in our beds.’
325 AR
Leesha bent in the garden, selecting the day’s herbs. Some, she pulled from the soil root and stalk. Others, she snapped off a few leaves, or used her thumbnail to pop a bud from its