What Was Forgotten (18 page)

“I still don’t trust you,” Nasiri said. “I know you know my father and mother, but that does not matter to me.”

They talked over food, and Osmun ate ravenously. It was simple enough – bread, fish, and dried fruit, but to him it was a feast. They sat facing each other on a few old cushions that were laid out on the cold stone floor of the basement.

“Do you believe me?” he asked them as they ate.

“On certain things,” Nasiri said.

“You’re definitely not Ardent,” Myron said, his mouth full. “You were right; they are after you. Did you really poison a fellow priest?”

“No! How could you even know about that?”

“It’s what I do. It pays to know things. Or rather,
I
pay to know things.”

“Well, I did not poison anyone, and you don’t have to pay me for that knowledge.”

“Why did you think I could help you?” Nasiri asked.

Osmun shrugged. “It was a guess. I remember when Tumanger had told me that one day you ran away. You never truly accepted the Beacon as the truth. I understand that, I suppose. I know that those cultures we conquer don’t truly believe…… even though they say they do.”

Nasiri leaned forward. “You never conquered Ivesia.”

“No. Of course not. But for you to come here, you had to make certain vows: to declare that the Beacon is the truth faith. Your mother and father believe. He told me that you never abandoned the rituals of your home.” Osmun shoved the last of his bread into his mouth and picked up another piece from the plate on the floor between them. “I had thought you would have gone back to Ivesia.”

“Why would you think that?”

Osmun stopped chewing. “Why would you stay here? If you detest the faith that the Empire is founded on…”

Nasiri had stopped eating, and she looked at Osmun and bit her lower lip. He could tell she wanted to tell him why she had stayed. There must have been a reason; perhaps it was to preach her own gospel or simply to work to undermine the authority of the Xidian Church. Whatever is was, she wanted to tell him, he could see. But she wouldn’t. Maybe with trust, and still, maybe not. Seeing anger welling within her, he decided to change the subject.

“You saw the shadow for yourself… what did you make of it?”

Nasiri looked around the room before she answered, slowly and intently. For a moment Osmun thought she may not answer his question at all. “Very unusual,” she said at last. “Where did it come from?”

“Two clerics made the rift in the Great Cathedral. A room, in the basement. Walls made of iron.”

“Seems to be an awfully foolish thing to do,” Myron said as he lay back onto one elbow. “It’s a wonder these things are drifting around the city like evil little rain clouds.”

“Maybe they are,” Osmun said. “How would you know?”

Myron did not answer; he just smiled and sipped at his small cup of wine.

“I did not mean where you made the rift, priest,” Nasiri said. “They made a rift to
where?
” Osmun was confused by the question. Did she not understand the nature of the boundaries between this world and the Beyond? Did she not know how to repair the borders to close off that world from this one? Perhaps she would not be able to help him at all…

“A rift to where? It can only be to one place. The realm of the dead, the world of mist, the Beyond… it can only
be
to one place.”

Nasiri’s mouth was agape. “Is that what they teach you? How can your learned men believe the world to be so simple as that? There are other places than what we can see, places other than this, other than what you see when you close your eyes.”

“Is that right?” Osmun nearly laughed. “Have you ever created a rift?”

Nasiri sat upright at the question. “Yes, I have. Many times.”

“To somewhere other than the Beyond?”

She remained silent.

“Then how can you make such a claim?” he asked when she did not answer.

“My people wrote of it. The famous Ivesian scholar Ashar Abarin wrote that these other realms could exist all near to each other, like crossing the same river at different points. Ashar wrote that some points of crossing are easier to see, almost plain to see, sometimes. In other spots it is difficult to cross, or nearly impossible.”

“The Beacon himself wrote of a river, but not of crossings,” Osmun said. “The river should run,
can
run only one way. This is the way it is in nature. Our spirits flow from this world to the Beyond as a river runs from high ground to low. Those spirits that remain here or fight against the current are aberrations, and it is a holy duty for those like me to send them back.”

Nasiri waved a hand in the air and looked away. “As I said… simple-minded foolishness.”

“Myron, you are a Trueborn… you must know that the Xidian teaching is true.”

“How can anyone say that with any certainty?” Myron shrugged. “Shall we discount the possibility of it because of the writings of one preacher?”

Osmun nodded slowly. It made sense to him now; they were of the same mind. Perhaps this is why she stayed after all: to convert people to the heretical Ivesian teachings. Maybe he even believed willingly, or maybe he yearned after her and said such inane things to be closer to her.

“Have either of you put Abarin’s
theories
into practice?” Osmun emphasized the word to support his point. “Have you crossed the river to somewhere other than the Beyond?” Nasiri and Myron both stared at him but said nothing. Myron sipped again at his wine. His overconfidence had been replaced by humility for the first time –– something that should happen more often, Osmun noted. “I thought not. Even Abarin himself expressed doubt that such a discovery could be achieved.”

“Say what you will about what has been written,” Nasiri said, “but there is something following you which you cannot explain. Nothing in your texts to help you combat it. Even your much-lauded skill, Osmun, has helped you not at all. So scoff if you like, but this shadow could be from a place we have not yet encountered. A place that Abarin thought could exist.”

“That can’t be,” Osmun said, shaking his head. “Andrican and Egus…… the clerics who created the rift… for what you’re saying to be true, they would then have to know how to create a rift to one of these other places. They’ve been taught as I have: that there is only this world and the Beyond. Nothing else.”

“Think what you like, priest. It may have come here through the Beyond… but where did it come from before that?”

There was a long silence as they all sat there with unanswerable questions hanging about them. For Osmun, there were even more than what was said. Why could she see the shadow and the clerics could not? Did it choose to whom it could reveal itself? There was the ubiquitous question of its purpose, its goal, but Osmun had abandoned the notion that he would ever discern that.

It was only after all of the food had been eaten that Nasiri finally brought up what the price would be for her assistance.

“Do you know where the Compendium is?” she asked.

“More or less. I’ve seen the entrance. I’m guessing that you have not.”

“No, I never got that close. Don’t look so surprised. I was being tutored for a time, a very brief time, before I allowed myself to be who I was meant to be. I had heard talk of the Compendium. Hushed whispers, mostly. The priests don’t like to talk about where the secrets are kept when outsiders are present. Anyone who is not a Trueborn, even someone like me who has gone through the Affirmations, they do not trust.”

“You
did
end up rejecting their faith and renouncing your Affirmation,” Myron said, smirking. “I don’t know if you can really complain about them not trusting you.”

“I don’t know much more about it than you do,” Osmun said. “The historians keep records of the Empire’s conquests.”

“They keep relics of the conquered,” Nasiri said, not a question, though Osmun sensed her uncertainty.

“Some relics, yes, from what I’ve heard. Usually, once the historians have studied the relics and done their writings, the relics are destroyed.”

Nasiri nodded and smiled. “I was hoping that was true, because I want you to go into the Compendium and find something.”

Osmun could not stop himself from laughing. “Get into the Compendium? I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. Even if I wasn’t suspected of murdering a member of the church, and even if I still had my title as a priest, I could not get into the Compendium. The historians and the elders are the only ones who have the authority to enter that room at will.”

“That sounds challenging,” Nasiri said, ignoring Osmun’s protest.

“Did you hear me? It’s not challenging. It’s impossible.”

“You should hope not, because this is the cost of my knowledge. You came to me. If you cannot do this for me, I am no worse off than I am. But you… how many safe places can you go? Here, I think, is the safest place you have. Without us, the Ardent will find you.”

“You’re not concerned that I might tell them about this place if they caught me?” Osmun asked.

“No, I’m not concerned. We would find another place as we have many times already. But the Ardent will find you. And, of course, you’ll have that shadow at your heels again.”

“Why will you not help me?” Osmun asked. “It follows me now, but what if there are more? It
wants
something, and this fact doesn’t concern you at all?”

“Not one bit,” Nasiri said. “There may be more someday, or maybe not. There is no reason to expect it, and for now, there is only one and it seems interested in only you.” She stared at him, challenging him to refuse because she knew somehow that he could not. If Myron was right about the Ardent, then Osmun had few choices, and perhaps truly just one.

“What is it you want from there?” Osmun asked.

“The Untranslated Tome.”

Osmun slept on the concrete floor that night. He had more tea, and at his insistence, Myron had added more of the black bear’s root. He agreed to Nasiri’s demand, but needed undisturbed rest. With a few pinches of the root in his tea he could have slept still and for long hours on top of hot coals and it would not have bothered him in the slightest.

He still felt the presence near him, but the deep, otherworldly voice did not invade his sleep that night. The next morning, Nasiri slapped Osmun’s hand away from the jars where they stored the ground root.

“Too much is dangerous,” she said. “Once you’ve done what I ask and have no further need for you. But not before.”

It had been three days since he had fled the monastery. Coarse black stubble covered his cheeks and jaw. Myron left a small blade for him to shave, but he decided not to. If he looked even slightly different, it would be an advantage for him. Osmun lifted the blade.

“You aren’t afraid that I might attack you with this?” he asked Myron.

“Not really,” Myron laughed. “That would be awfully foolish of you, wouldn’t it? We’re the only friends you’ve got at the moment, I’m afraid. How long will you last by yourself with the Ardent looking for you? Not long, I’d wager.”

“Some friends,” Osmun said, pocketing the blade.

“I know.” Myron laughed again. “You’re in an awful bad way.”

They left him alone much of the time. One or both of them would leave and go out into the streets to do… Osmun didn’t know what. It must have been true about the Ardent; why else would they leave him alone so readily unless they knew that he had no other allies, no friends, and nowhere else to turn? In those solitary hours he fretted over the unknowable consequences of delivering the Untranslated Tome to Nasiri. Why did she need it? Would she even honour her word? He concluded, though, that once he expelled the stalking shadow back to the Beyond, once he proved all of this to Andrican and Egus, he would help lead the Ardent to them. They were apostates, plotting at something unknown, but criminal at the very least, if not entirely sinister. He would blame the theft from the Compendium on them, too. They would protest and divulge his involvement, but who would believe them?

“Have you decided how you will do it?” Nasiri asked him that afternoon.

Osmun had spent the last few hours scrawling notes onto pages before crumpling up the paper and tossing it onto the still-warm embers of the wood stove. “I think so.” He could feel her standing behind him, looking over his shoulder at the words on the page.

“How complicated can it be?”

“It can be very complicated, I promise you. I don’t even know how the Compendium door is meant to open.”

“One more day,” she said. “And then it must be done.”

“How will I know where to find it? What if it’s one among a hundred tomes?”

“Do you know how often historians go back to that book? Every few months someone thinks they have found a key to unlock its secrets or thinks they can find a hint that everyone else has missed. It is read and read again so often that it is a wonder the ink hasn’t rubbed off on their hands. It will be in a prominent place.”

Osmun turned away from the hearth to face her. “What do you need it for?”

“It was ours,” she said. “Ryferian soldiers took it during the second invasion of Ivesia. It belongs back with us.” Nasiri turned and left the room, affronted by the question. “One more day,” she said.