Victoria gave the scholar-archivist a condescending frown as he left. “Don’t worry about young Simon, Wizard Nathan. He has reached a level of responsibility beyond his capabilities.” She sounded sweet and maternal. “Archiving all the volumes in the library is an immense and overwhelming task, and it will take many generations to do properly. Memmers have dealt with the problem of retaining our information for thousands of years, so it is understandable why Simon feels such urgency.”
“But there is genuine urgency, madam,” Nathan said. “If the Lifedrinker continues to drain the world, none of us has much time left.” He ran his fingers through his shoulder-length white hair. “I do need to know what you have memorized, but, as Simon pointed out, I cannot access what is stored inside your head.”
Victoria smiled with a patient warmth. “Then we will lead you through it. We shall recite the books you need to read, because we know them by heart.”
Nathan could skim words on paper faster than any memmer could speak, but if Victoria and her acolytes sorted through their memorized knowledge and recited only the relevant portions, perhaps it would be worthwhile.
He regarded Audrey, Laurel, and Sage, saw the three different types of beauty. “They are not your actual daughters, though I see how you care for them. You must be very close.”
“These dear girls have spent their lives with me. I consider all of my acolytes to be my surrogate sons and daughters.” Sadness washed over Victoria’s face like a fog closing in. “I never had children of my own, although my husband and I tried very hard. When we wed, Bertram and I dreamed of having a large family, but…” Her expression fell further, and she turned away. “But I was barren. We never had children. Three times I found myself pregnant, and we had such hope. I even started making infant clothes … but I lost the baby each time. And then Bertram died.”
She closed her eyes and heaved a great breath. She gave the three young acolytes a loving look. “So I poured all my maternal instincts into guiding my acolytes, and over the years I have trained a family larger than Bertram and I ever dreamed we could have.
“I have done my duty to preserve the memmers, so that knowledge is passed on from parent to child, independent from what is written down in the archive.” She sounded defensive. “I refuse to let go of our heritage. It is we who kept the lore preserved for the centuries when Cliffwall remained hidden.” Audrey, Laurel, and Sage, with tears in their eyes, nodded. Victoria swept the three of them into a hug. “Sometimes I wish I had never remembered the spell that dissolved the camouflage shroud.” She shook her head.
“You had to,” Laurel said.
“It was time,” Sage said.
Intrigued, Nathan pushed the stacked books aside. “And how exactly did you reveal the hidden barrier after thousands of years? I thought no one knew how to counter the camouflage spell.”
“It was a rare mistake—for the memmers, and for me.”
Nathan folded his hands together, raised his eyebrows. “I am listening.”
“As we told you, the camouflage shroud was more than just a disguise. It was a barrier, a preservation spell. Cliffwall was sealed behind a barricade of time. Not just hidden—it was gone.
“But the first memmers were given the knowledge of how to take down that secret barricade when it was time. If no one remembered how to drop the shroud, then the knowledge might as well have been destroyed. So, the key was passed along in our collective memory, generation to generation.” She nodded to herself. “After three thousand years had passed, and the wizard wars were long over, the canyon dwellers considered it safe enough to try. But, alas, the release spell we had memorized millennia ago no longer worked.”
Victoria put a hand to the center of her chest and drew a shaky breath. “Somewhere along the line, we had remembered it wrong! We truly could not recall the nuances of phrasing. At some point when passing the knowledge from parent to child, from teacher to student, someone must have made an error.” She looked away in embarrassment, as if the revelation shamed all memmers.
“Dear spirits,” Nathan muttered.
Victoria continued, “We could admit it to no one, though. The isolated canyon people had devoted their lives to keeping the secret—for millennia! They trusted the memmers, they believed in us. We could not tell them we had forgotten! Some stalled for time, making awkward excuses and saying that it wasn’t yet time to reveal the archive. But no one knew how to do so! For more than a century, we held out hope that someone would figure out what had gone wrong. The memmers secretly prayed that someone would correct the spell and reveal the library vaults again.”
Victoria looked up, met Nathan’s azure gaze. “That person was me … and it was a mistake. I memorized a spell incorrectly. I uttered an improper combination of syllables in the ancient tongue of Ildakar.” She continued in a breathy voice, “And it worked! I was just a girl of seventeen years, being trained by my parents … and I got the spell wrong.”
Nathan let out a delighted chuckle. “But, dear madam, you accidentally got it right. You made a corresponding error, mistakenly saying the sounds properly. The camouflage shroud fell, and you revealed the hidden archive. That is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Victoria sounded disappointed. “For millennia, the memmers were powerful and respected, the keepers of inaccessible knowledge. But by throwing open the floodgates and inviting gifted scholars from the outer towns, I may have made us obsolete.”
“Perhaps.” Nathan briskly rubbed his hands together. “But now everyone has this knowledge. It may help us defeat the Lifedrinker.”
Victoria’s face remained lined with concern. “Dangerous information for any fool to use! Giving it to people who were not ready, not trained—that was what created the Lifedrinker in the first place.”
She grumbled. “My mother was a harsh teacher. She would make me repeat her words over and over again until each spell became part of my soul, every word imprinted in the marrow of my bones. She beat me with a willow switch every time I made an error. She would shriek warnings at me about the dangers a mistake could unleash on the world.”
Victoria lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “I remember my father’s smile and his patience, but my mother did not believe he took his role seriously enough. She blamed him for teaching me an incorrect phrase, and he just laughed, delighted that the problem of the shroud had been solved—by his own daughter. It was time for celebration, he said. The camouflage shroud was at last gone.”
Victoria leaned closer to Nathan, who was captivated by the story. “My mother killed him for it. She threw him over the cliff before he could believe what she was doing. My mother didn’t even bother to watch him fall. I heard him scream—and it stopped when he struck the ground.
“My mother railed at me for making my mistake. ‘Do you not know how important this is? Do you not see that every word must be perfect? If you do not revere the words, the dangers could be unimaginable!’ I was terrified. All I could hear were shouts down on the canyon floor as people rushed to my father’s body. But my mother was intent on me. Her eyes were wild, and I could feel her hot breath on my face. ‘I killed your father to protect us all. What if he had misquoted a fire spell? What if he mistakenly taught one of us how to breach the veil and unleash the Keeper upon the world?’ I had to nod and admit the depth of my father’s error. We never mourned him.” Tears filled Victoria’s eyes.
“But if your error corrected an error, why should you feel guilty?” Nathan asked.
“Because the error itself showed everyone that our perfect memory might not be perfect.”