Chapter Text
“Violet, this is not a discussion. On Conscription Day, you will be joining the Rider’s Quadrant. The only other acceptable alternative would be the other way off the parapet.”
Calling her daughter’s fall from the parapet an acceptable alternative to being a scribe is so like my mother, I have to hold back a delirious laugh.
“I’ve been preparing to be a scribe before I could walk. Markham wants to personally train me as his successor,” I plead. “I am not Mira. I will die before I get anywhere close to a dragon.”
The General’s mouth twists into an annoyed sneer, as if the discussion of my demise was an inconvenience—which it probably was. If it was not for the storm that raged the night of the funeral, I would have assumed my father’s death was merely an inconvenience as well.
“No, you are certainly not Mira.” I flinch at her matter-of-fact tone. “Mira would not have argued a useless point. She knows how to follow orders. Now, I’ve had enough of your insubordination. No child of mine will be a scribe. You will be a rider or you will be nothing. Your training will start when I return from Calldyr.”
“Yes, General,” I mumble. I have never seen eye-to-eye with my mother, but I never expected that she’d send me to die.
It’s senseless and petty, but I can’t help but hope that it hurts her. If Brennan and my father were the first strikes, I want my death to be the one to destroy her beyond recognition.
Then I remember Mira, who is going to become an only child. Bile rises in my throat at the wave of guilt I feel.
“Can I still attend training with Markham?” I ask. “Conscription Day is not for almost a year.”
She sighs like it is an incredible favor. “That is fine. Do not let it distract you from your training. You are a Sorrengail and you will not disappoint me.”
I want to scream and cry that I never asked to be a Sorrengail. That being a Sorrengail did not save Brennan, or fix my father’s heart.
She looks at me expectantly, and I know that I've been dismissed. I distantly register saying my goodbyes and walking back to my room, but everything is fuzzy around the edges—like I was watching my life as an observer through a thick, perilous fog.
The tears do not fall until I’m finally alone, staring at The Fable of the Barrens sitting on my desk like it would hold all of the answers. It is the last thing I have from my father. The rest of his belongings were burned to ash.
My anger simmers under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. If my father was still alive, my mother wouldn't be doing this. He was a scribe, and my mother loved him. She did, right? Why can’t she do the same for me?
An animalistic scream tears itself from my throat as I sweep all of the things off my desk and across the room with as much force as I can muster. I feel a single heartbeat of relief at the sound of glass shattering from the paperweight I received for some birthday years ago.
The anger immediately fades into regret when I watch my father’s book hit the wall with a loud slam before crashing into the stone floor. It’s left sprawled open on the ground, spine broken at an odd angle and cover partially falling off. I drop to the floor and my knees hit the stone with a force that I’ll feel tomorrow. In between gasping sobs, I crawl towards the broken remains of my book to see if, unlike me, it can be saved.
There is a piece of paper sticking out from inside the cover, as if it was hidden under the tome’s binding. My surprise smothers my tears.
To my dearest Violet—
My father's familiar script makes my heart pick up speed. It’s written in Tyrrish, one of many languages he taught me, and it’s unmistakably his handwriting.
I am writing this letter in hopes that you will never read it, or you’ll find me silly for such a morbid warning eventually. But now that I know the truth, I know you will draw the same conclusions someday. Of all my children, you are the most like me.
In a perfect world, you would be the greatest scribe to ever grace Navarre. But the more I learn, the more that I fear I will not be around to see it. This kingdom has made more mistakes than I could begin to fathom, and they will do anything to maintain control. There are things you do not know about leadership, and that knowledge would be as good as your death. I have spent years hiding my research from everyone, even Mira and your mother.
If it is as I fear, you have entered the Scribe Quadrant and you have noticed that things are not as they appear. Knowing you, it will take no time at all until you start asking the same questions I had. And I do know you, Violet. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes. If you find out the truth, you won’t be able to stop yourself from making your voice heard.
As a father, I need to advise caution. There are lies hidden everywhere, even in the books we’re meant to venerate. Do not trust any of the leadership in Navarre and keep your realizations close to your chest. The people who you assume to be your enemies may be most trustworthy of them all. I can’t explain everything here, but please remember the lessons I have taught you about our role in history. The book I’ve gifted you will be your guiding light. When you are ready, find my research. You are the only one with the tools to discover the truth, and the resiliency to do what is right.
I love you, Violet. Your brilliance is only overshadowed by your bravery and compassion. I want you to live.
I run my fingertips lightly over the ink on the page while my mind races. I try to align all of the facts presented to me, just as he always taught me.
My father did not trust leadership, and found things he could not share with Mira or my mother. He feared that I would make the same discoveries once I become a scribe, and that they would get me killed.
My face goes white. The Healer’s report said that Brennan’s death broke him, and the pain was more than his heart could take. I never once doubted the official story, but there is something that bothers me now about the way he completely withdrew from society months before he ever got sick. Or the way that my mother stopped letting me visit him even though it wasn’t contagious. She told me it was because he shouldn’t be remembered that way, but what if that was just a lie to keep the truth contained?
They did it. They really killed him to keep him quiet. The realization sends me reeling.
Every interaction I’ve ever had with leadership flashes through my brain in rapid succession. Even without knowing the subject of his research, I can’t bring myself to be truly surprised at the lengths they will go to. The brutality of Basgiath is legendary.
My tears dry on my face. Did my mother know? Did she suspect it and say nothing? The idea that his murder could have been cleared with the General as another memo across her desk makes bile rise in my throat. I lunge for the wastebasket by my bed to empty the contents of my stomach.
He was betrayed, and he used his remaining time to hide a letter as a warning for me for when I enter the Archives.
But he was wrong in the end, wasn’t he? I will be crossing the parapet instead of entering the Scribe Quadrant. Can I live without knowing the truth? Or given my destination, perhaps the question would be can I die without knowing?
The answer to both is no. I really can’t.
Why did my mother decide I had to become a rider? Does her decision have something to do with the subject of the letter?
My father thought I’d figure it out easily, so maybe the General drew the same conclusion. If the General is complicit, she’d be interested in hiding the truth. Was she sending me to the Rider’s Quadrant to die or was it to keep me away from the scribes—away from the truth? Both?
I ignore the aching in my knees and return to my desk to analyze the letter more closely. I flip the paper around. There are a few lines on the bottom of the page in a language I can’t read. If I have to guess, I’d say Morrainian. He knew exactly what languages I could understand. Why use one that I did not know for a few additional lines?
In the same vein, why write the letter in Tyrrish at all? He taught me several dead languages, any of which would have been safer to use for a letter he never wanted anyone else to read. But he decided to use the language of Tyrrendor. While it is not the common tongue, it was certainly still spoken, even after the rebellion.
I wish the letter was dated. He only mentions Mira, so I can assume it was written after Brennan’s death. I hadn’t noticed anything strange about his behavior until after my mother was granted the General position at Basgiath the year after Brennan died, but I could be wrong. In fact, I could be wrong about everything.
The setting sun makes my eyes strain as I read his final words for me over and over again. For hours, I stay in the same place, with my body curled over the letter as if it would come alive and answer all my questions. I feel an ache in my back join the pain radiating from my knees, but it hardly registers. A lifetime of pain taught me that it is only temporary—a distraction at worst.
I need to find out the truth somehow, without being allowed into the inner sanctum of the Archives reserved for scribes.
I finally tear my eyes from the letter and stand up on trembling legs to walk over to the mirror in the corner of my room. With the last bit of light shining into my window, I examine my reflection critically. The same way I would analyze a piece of ancient literature, or assess the validity of a source.
Everything about me is at odds with the image of a rider, from my soft curves to my short stature. My bones are barely held together by my skin and faulty joints. My hair, and the way it fades to a sickly silver, is just another sign of my weakness for anyone who knows the story of my birth. I will be lucky to make it across the parapet, let alone bond with a dragon. Dragons abhor weakness and yet it is the only trait I have in spades according to every person I’ve ever met.
But my father never called me weak, and he knew me—down to the fibers of my very soul. He never even alluded to my fragility; he only wrote of my brilliance, and my bravery, and my compassion. He didn’t doubt that I’d discover the truth and do the right thing. His steadfast belief gives me more confidence than I ever thought possible.
If my father’s last wish is for me to live and find out the bitter truth, whatever that may be, that is what I will do. Or I’d die trying.
And since the General is giving me no choice but to cross the parapet, then I suppose I will just have to do that as a rider. There is no other choice but to survive. And if a scribe could not discover the truth and live to see it, perhaps a rider stands a better chance.
Plus those continuous ink pens? Definitely a bonus. I used to tease Brennan and Mira that if I didn’t have to pause to re-ink my quill so often, I would have taken over the world by now.
I have less than a year to train for survival, and—thanks to my mother’s concession—less than a year to investigate the truth under Markham’s tutelage. As head of the Scribe Quadrant, it’s clear that Markham was likely directly responsible for or complicit in my father’s death.
You will live, I tell myself over and over again. By the time I step onto the parapet, I hope that I believe it.