Lamentation (37 page)

Perhaps he was. Neb thought about Winters. He thought about the dream where above them, a large brown world filled the sky.
This is our home,
she had said, laying naked beside him, and he believed her. Somewhere beyond this time, a new home arose.

Someday, in the fullness of time, he would help them find it. But until then, he would stay here in the Ninefold Forest. Perhaps Rudolfo would let him serve the library in some fashion.

“Are you still here?” he asked the empty forest.

Nebios ben Hebda heard the soft grunt and the slightest stirring from somewhere nearby, and he smiled.

Rudolfo

Rudolfo caught up with Petronus on the road to Caldus Bay on the evening of the following day. He’d spent most of a night and a day soothing his shaken guests. When he heard that the old man had slipped quietly out of the city the night before, he called for his fastest stallion. He waved off his Gypsy Scouts, and Aedric didn’t balk when he saw the anger in Rudolfo’s eyes.

He pushed his stallion hard, riding low and feeling the wind tug at his cloak and hair. He inhaled the smell of the forest, the smell of the horse, and the smell of the plains ahead.

When he spotted the old man and his old horse two leagues into the prairie, he felt for the hilt of his narrow sword and clicked his tongue at his steed. He pounded ahead, overtaking Petronus, and spun his horse. He whipped out his blade and pointed its tip at the old man.

Petronus looked up, and Rudolfo lowered his sword when he saw the look of devastation on the old man’s face. Those bloodstained eyes, he realized, looked too much like the red sky he’d seen over the smoldering ruins and blackened bones of Windwir.

The old man did not speak.

Rudolfo danced the stallion closer to ask a question that he already knew the answer to. “Why?”

“I did what I must.” Petronus’s jaw clenched firmly. “Because if I didn’t, everything else I did would be a lie.”

“We all do what we must.” Rudolfo sheathed his sword, the anger draining out of him. “When did you know? When did you decide to do this?”

Petronus sighed. “Some part of me knew it when I saw the column of smoke. Another part knew it when I saw the field of bones and ash.”

Rudolfo pondered this and nodded slowly, searching for the right words to say. When he couldn’t find them, he spurred his horse forward and left the old man alone with his.

Rudolfo raced the plains until the moon rose and stars scattered the warm, dark night. At some point, everything fell away but a false sense of freedom that Rudolfo embraced for the moment because he knew it would pass soon. He sped through the darkness, feeling the stallion move beneath him, hearing its hooves on the ground and the snorting of its breath. It was he and his horse and the wide open prairie, with no House Li Tam, no library, no Androfrancines, no nuptials and no heir. And though he knew it was false, Rudolfo honored the lie of it until he saw the forest on his right. Then he slowed the stallion and turned for the trees, eventually slipping from the saddle and leading the horse on foot back in the direction of what was true.

He took the less familiar paths, and thought about his life. He thought about the days before Windwir fell and the days after. He thought of nights spent in the supply wagon because he preferred it to a bed. He thought of days spent in the saddle instead of his study. Beds shared with more women than he could count and the one woman he knew he must have.

My life has changed, he told himself, and he realized that it would not have if he had not wished it so. He had chosen to rebuild the library, to keep something good in the world of its philosophies, art, drama, history, poetry and song. He had also chosen to align himself with Jin Li Tam, a beautiful and formidable woman that today he could respect, and one day he would love. Between them, they would bring forward a life who would also, if Rudolfo had his way, be formidable and beautiful. And he would inherit the light and be a shepherd of it as his father was.

Rudolfo thought of these things, and he thought of the old man making his way towards the coast, tears wetting his white beard. He thought of his friend Isaak limping about on his mangled leg and wearing his Androfrancine robes. He thought of the boy, Neb, who had stood when Petronus bid someone kill for the light. He thought of Vlad Li Tam at his bonfire, burning the record of his family’s work.

The Desolation of Windwir has reached us all, he thought.

It no longer mattered why. It mattered that it never happen again. And Rudolfo saw clearly his part in that, and he saw how a lamentation could become a hymn.

The less familiar paths fell away, spilling him onto the road. He crossed it, still leading his horse, and stayed to the forest, though he could see the lights of his sleeping city now. He continued on, approaching the library hill from the southern side.

He would stable his horse. He would let himself into the manor. He would approach Jin Li Tam in her bedchamber, and he would whisper quietly with her into the morning about a forward dream that they could share between them. In the morning he would give the order to dismantle Tormentor’s Row, and let go of that backward dream so that his son, Jakob, and his metal friend, Isaak, could build something better. But first, he had to see the small part that he had started for them.

Ahead, he heard soft voices, a low humming, and a whispering sound he could not quite place. Leaving the horse, he stepped forward, silent as one of his own Gypsy Scouts, to pull aside the foliage that blocked his view.

The bookmakers’ tent lay open before him, its silk walls rolled up to let in the night. The soft voices were those few of the remnant who had stayed behind to help, moving from table to table, laying out parchment and fresh quills. The metal men worked at those tables, their gears and bellows humming and their jeweled eyes throwing back the lamplight.

Rudolfo stayed for an hour, sitting in grass that grew damp with dew, soothed by the sound he couldn’t place before.

It was the sound of their pens whispering across the pages.

It is a bird, and it has been dead for a month but does not know it. Its snapped neck leaves the head hanging limp as its wings pound the sky.

It flies over a hillside beneath a blue green moon and perches for a moment on a fresh-hewn cornerstone.

It flies over a field of ash beside a river, and it opens its beak to taste the memory of war and bones upon the wind.

It flies over an ocean, an armada of ships gathering at its edge, steam from their engines fogging the bird’s dead eyes.

It flies homeward, this dead messenger, at the Watcher’s bidding.

The bird enters a small window. It lands upon a scarlet sleeve, and when it opens its beak, a metallic whisper leaks out.

“Thus shall the sins of P’Andro Whym be visited upon his children,” the kin-raven tells its master.

Acknowledgments

Writing can be a solitary act but there is certainly a community aspect to it as well.

I would like to thank the following people for their part in bringing
Lamentation
together:

First, my amazing wife and partner, Jen West Scholes, and my great friend Jay Lake, who finally accomplished the seemingly impossible task of getting me to write a novel. Right there beside them, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank John Pitts for his constant support and friendship, and Jerry Jelusich for the same. These four kept me cranking the words out at a breakneck pace, driven by their enthusiasm, and then loaned their keen eyes to the revision process.

Robert Fairbanks introduced me to sword and sorcery as well as Dungeons and Dragons. Your map of the Named Lands, sir, brings back great memories. Thank you for that, and for nearly thirty years of brotherhood.

My father, Standley Scholes, who told me if I wanted it bad enough I’d crawl across broken glass to get it. You were right, Dad, and it wasn’t so bad after all.

I’d also like to thank Shawna McCarthy and Doug Cohen at
Realms of Fantasy
—I’m glad you two loved Rudolfo and the gang enough to publish “Of Metal Men and Scarlet Thread and Dancing with the Sunrise” and introduce the short story that stretched into the Psalms of Isaak. (Shawna, that note to go write a novel with these characters was a great boost!) And I’m grateful to all of you out there who read the story and loved it enough to write to me and say so. That’s great encouragement.

Allen Douglas: Your artwork for the
Realms
story was so powerful that it showed me how much more there was to what I’d started there and was the diving board into inspiration. It’s on my wall now, to remind me.

And then there’s my agent, Jennifer Jackson, Thirty-second Daughter of Vlad Li Tam: I’m glad you loved the book, and I’m pleased to be in such great company at the Donald Maass Literary Agency.

To Beth Meacham, Tom Doherty, Jozelle Dyer, and the fine crew at Tor: Thank you for your enthusiasm and support for this project. It is contagious and often fuels my fire. I am grateful for your hard work on this book—and on the ones to follow. I look forward to our work ahead.

There are dozens of other people who helped along the way. Thank you all.

And last but not least, thank
you,
Dear Reader, for giving your time to this book. I hope you'll return to the Named Lands with me soon.

Ken Scholes

Saint Helens, Oregon

March 2008

About the Author

Ken Scholes is a winner of the Writers of the Future contest with short stories appearing in various magazines and anthologies since 2000.
Lamentation
is his first novel.

Ken grew up in a small logging town in the Pacific Northwest. He has honorable discharges from two branches of the military, a degree in history from Western Washington University, and is a former clergyman and label-gun repairman. Ken lives near Portland, Oregon, with his wife, Jen West Scholes.

Ken invites readers to visit his website,
www.kenscholes.com