“Possibly. Or perhaps this was some sort of literary dialect— much as we use Vitellian and Croatani for our sacred texts.”
The fratrex nodded. “Here I acknowledge my limits. It may be as you say.”
“Or it may not,” Stephen said hastily. “After all, I based that on just a few words. But with some study, I can develop a more confident opinion.”
“And how long until you’ve translated the whole thing?”
“I can’t say with certainty, Reverend. If it is an unknown dialect, it could be troublesome.”
“Yes. Could you do it in a nineday?”
“Reverend?” Dismayed, Stephen tried to keep the strain from his voice. “I can try. Is it that important?”
The reverend frowned. “To me? No. But consider it a test, a first devotion. Do this in the time I’ve allotted, and you may well walk the fanes earlier than any other novice.”
Mention of the fanes brought Stephen’s pain back to mind. What would Brother Desmond say to that?
“Reverend, I desire no special treatment. Of course I will translate with alacrity. It’s what you brought me here for, and I will not disappoint you.”
“I don’t expect you to.” Then Fratrex Pell’s voice sharpened. “Nor do I expect you to question my judgment. If I declare you are ready to walk the fanes, it will be because you are. Do you understand, yes? Special treatment does not enter into it.
“We’ve been banging our heads against this scrift for months, and in a count of one hundred you’ve already unraveled one of its mysteries. That is a clear sign from the saints. Your success or failure in the next nineday will also be a clear sign, one way or another. You see?”
“One way or another, Reverend?”
“Exactly.” The fratrex patted him firmly on the shoulder, sending darts of agony shooting through Stephen’s body. “My, you are tender,” he said. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Saints be with you.”
“And with you, Reverend,” Stephen replied.
When the fratrex was gone, his words still hung in the air, as certain in form as if scrived in lead, and as uncertain as the content of the manuscrift.
One way or another. If Stephen succeeded, he would walk the fanes and become an initiate, something that might otherwise take a year or more. Of course, then Desmond Spendlove would probably beat him to death.
But what if he failed? What would the saints be telling the fratrex then?
But no, one thing was certain—no one had read these ancient words in more than a thousand years. Whatever might come, whatever he was risking, he would do it.
He found paper and charcoal for tracing, a brush for cleaning the characters, and mixed some ink.
A bell later he had forgotten the fratrex, Desmond Spendlove, and all threats of punishment and pain, as ancient thoughts slowly, tentatively revealed themselves.
The dialect was, indeed, unknown. The form of the words was much like Vadhiian, but the way those words were put together, and the grammar that gave them sense, were older, more akin to the tongues of the elder Cavarum.
The vespers bell found him still hunched over the manuscrift, with translated lines scribbled on the paper next to it. As he progressed, he had crossed out preliminary guesses and replaced them with more certain ones. Sitting straight up, he cracked his neck and rubbed his eyes, then went back through his notes.
He had begun to gather the pieces of the puzzle—the conjugation of this and that verb, the relation of subject to object—but hadn’t tried to put it all together. So, on a clean sheet, he began a running translation. It read:
This addressed to the gods.
In the thirty-eighth year of the reign of Ukel Kradh dhe’Uvh (a title of the Black Jester, meaning “Proud Heart of Fear,” written in the Vadhiian dialect, unlike the rest of the document—S.D.) these words were scrived. Behold them, for they are terrible. They are for your eyes, Great Lord, and for none other. Lord of the Sedoi, here is told of the (noybhubh: fanes? altars? temples?) belonging to the (zhedunmara: damned gods? unsacred demons?). Here is told of the (vath thadhathun: sedos-paths? faneways?) of the Mother-Devouring, of the Sacred Desire, of the Madman Lord, of the Lightning-Twisted-Inside, of their kith and clan. Here is told how to entertain them. (Uwdathez: Cursed?) is any other who gazes upon these words. And (cursed?) is he who writes this.
A frost touched Stephen’s spine. What in the name of the saints did he have here? He had never seen an ancient text even remotely like this.
Of course, little had survived from the era of the Warlock Wars. Much of what had been written then was profane and evil, and had been destroyed by the church.
If this was such a text, how had it slipped by? Simply because no one could read it? That was stupid. When the Hegemony brought peace to the north, they had with them some of the greatest scholars in the ancient world. Besides, this language would have been close enough to dialects of the time that any scholar back then should have been able to accomplish with ease what Stephen was now doing with difficulty— translate it by reference to sister languages.
Maybe this one had been hidden or, as Stephen suspected, buried. Maybe some peasant had dug it up in his field and brought it to the brothers at Saint Donwys, who assumed it was a sacred church text, and put it in their scriftorium.
Wherever it had come from, Stephen was virtually certain that it ought not to exist. Just as certainly, when the church learned what it was, it would be destroyed.
He should tell Fratrex Pell all this now. He should go no further.
“Brother?”
Stephen nearly jumped out of his skin. A monk he did not know was standing only a few feet away.
“I’m sorry?” Stephen said.
“Fratrex Pell asked you to deliver the evening meal to the watchtowers.”
“Oh! Of course.”
“Shall I replace that?” The brother waved at the scrift.
“Oh—no. It’s something I’m translating for the fratrex. Could we leave it here, so I can take it up more easily tomorrow?”
“Of course,” the fellow said.
“I’m Stephen Darige,” he offered.
“Brother Sangen, at your service. I keep things on the shelves, here. That’s one of the new Vadhiian scrifts?”
“There are more?”
“Oh, yes. They’ve been trickling in for the past few years.”
“Really? All from Saint Donwys?”
“Heavens, no. From all over.” He frowned slightly, as if suddenly concerned. “You’d better get going. Fratrex Pell is mostly patient, but if he asks that something be done, he means it.”
“Of course.” Stephen picked up his free translation and notes. “I’m going to keep these with me, so I can mull them over before sleep. Is that permitted?”
“Of course. Good evening to you, Brother Stephen.” His voice dropped. “Keep you well on the path to the watchtowers. ’Tis said the south path, down by the woods, is longer but more … pleasant. I can explain the way to you, if you would like.”
“I would,” Stephen said. “Very much.”
In the gloaming, with fireflies rising like ghosts departing the world, Stephen felt the chill return. He fought the urge to go straight to the fratrex and reveal what he had discovered.
He didn’t fear the curse, of course. Whatever pagan god had been invoked was long dead, or a captive of the saints. The Black Jester had been defeated and lay dead for more than a millennium. The curse was no longer of any matter.
But any scrift that began with such a strong curse was likely to contain things no man ought to see, ought to have ever seen.
Yet he couldn’t be sure. It might prove to be nothing more than a catalogue of dead fiends. And it might contain information useful to the church.
Until he was certain it was irredeemable, he couldn’t give it up to be destroyed.