Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

The three Dherg that Persephone called dwarfs, but who Roan collectively thought of as the little men, most certainly snored. Dahl Rhen’s gate horn wasn’t much louder than them, and she couldn’t understand how they managed to sleep through the racket they produced. What drew her attention, besides her usual interest in all things snoring-related, was that they made a specific pattern. Each repeated the same sound, the same pause, the same inhale, and then the same riotous, rattling noise. She focused on this because her mind was working on repeating sounds, and because her brain had a habit of drifting to similar events when she was working out a problem. She got many good ideas that way. A leaf spinning on the surface of a pool gave her the idea for Gifford’s pottery table, which later gave her the idea for the wheel. Roan was hunting something more elusive this time—how to draw language.

What had begun as Brin’s obsession had become a puzzle for Roan as she sat on the floor looking at the stone table. From that angle, she could see the underside and found it was gouged and chipped. The quizzical expression she must have had on her face attracted attention.

“Just leave her alone,” Moya whispered to Persephone. “That’s what she does, and believe me, right now we need her doing it.”

Roan ignored them and continued staring at the table. Normally, when she wanted to focus, she chewed on her hair. When that wasn’t enough, she pulled on it hard until it hurt. This time she went to the extreme of lifting the strands, forcing the hair against the grain. Making the pain worse helped her concentrate, always had. Roan got her best insights when Iver beat her. In the worst of times, Roan’s mind learned to block the world out. Iver, the house, the pain, the fear: It all faded into a background haze as her thoughts converged on a single point. Focused in such a fashion, she could endure anything, and brilliance was often the result.

The little men are snoring. No, the snoring isn’t important. It’s the space between.

The pauses coincided with their breathing. Breathe in, snore, breathe in, snore—a pattern. People paused when speaking, too, but not always to breathe, rarely to breathe. Pauses occurred before and after words, and greater breaks when changing ideas. When drawing words, the lack of sound would be a lack of drawing. The gaps between the marks were those pauses. Words were divided by gaps. New line—new thought. What wasn’t there was as important as what was.

Brin had already worked that out. The girl’s system of writing sounds based on symbols took this into account. Genius really. Each mark was a sound. A series of marks became a word. Gaps between, delineated one from the next. Using this concept, Brin had already begun deciphering the markings on the tablets. All this was fine and good, but what about snoring?

And what about the table? Because…

“It’s not a table at all,” Roan muttered to herself.

Persephone, who was still sitting in the stone chair looking at her, said, “It’s not? What is it?”

“It’s another tablet,” Roan replied. “I can see markings on the bottom.”

Moya and Persephone bent down and looked.

“It was set up this way to work on,” Roan explained. “Easier when you can sit in front of it and slide your legs underneath. I can’t imagine it’s easy to chisel all those marks—harder if you’re forced to crouch down on your knees. As this is the only one propped up, this would be the last thing worked on.”

“Why is it upside down?” Persephone asked.

Roan shrugged. “Maybe to make more markings on the back, or…to hide what’s on it.”

Moya and Brin turned the stone over. Nearly all the rock of the Agave’s floor was shale, a layered rock made from mud that easily broke and split into leaves of surprising thinness. The tablets were all about the thickness of Moya’s thumb and not too terribly heavy. They were also soft enough to allow the markings to be scraped rather than chiseled. Once the stone had been turned, Moya and Persephone glanced at it with disappointment. Brin left the stack she was working on and, holding up the glowstone, took a moment to study the new markings.

“Can’t understand it,” she declared with a scowl. She ran fingers lightly over the symbols. “I’ve worked out a lot of the words using the key and the Orinfar. A few phrases, too, but this…” Brin frowned at the table tablet. “I don’t recognize anything here.” She paused. “Well, I do. I mean the symbols are the same, but I can’t make out any of the words.”

Roan nodded, and that’s when it all made sense. At such times, it was like a flash of light, an instant of perfect illumination. For that one moment, the whole world was revealed and she could see it down to the purpose of every grain of sand. Then the light went out and all she took with her was the afterimage.

Roan pointed toward the snoring dwarfs. “Can you understand what they are saying?”

Brin looked at her puzzled. “They’re snoring, Roan. They aren’t saying anything.”

“But their mouths are open and they are making sounds.”

“But the sounds aren’t words. They’re just sounds.”

“Exactly,” Roan said. “What if that’s what’s on the table tablet…just sounds.”

“I don’t understand.” Brin leaned over the table, looking at its marred surface.

“I do,” Suri said. The mystic had been sitting, petting Minna; now she got to her feet and walked over to the table tablet. “Tell me what it says.”

“It doesn’t say anything,” Brin insisted.

“But you understand the symbols?”

Brin nodded.

“And they make sounds?”

“Sure, but not words.”

“Show us. Make it snore,” Roan said.

“What?” Brin asked, confused to the point of bewilderment.

“Make the sounds.”

Brin shrugged. She looked down at the surface of the stone. “I don’t know all of them. I guessed at quite a few, so they’re probably wrong.” She placed a finger on the stone, using it as a placeholder, dragging from left to right across the symbols as she made noises.

Suri shook her head after Brin had only gone down three lines. “That’s wrong.”

“What do you mean it’s wrong? What’s wrong? How do you know it’s wrong?”

The mystic shrugged. “It just is.”

“Read from the top down,” Roan suggested.

“But I learned from the tablets that the words are marked left to right in lines.”

“Try anyway.”

Brin began making sounds again, this time dragging her finger down the tablet.

Again, Suri shook her head.

“Try right to left,” Roan prompted.

“I don’t understand,” Brin said. “What are we even doing?”

“Read it right to left.” When she did, Suri’s eyes grew wide and a smile formed on her face.

—

Suri listened to Brin as she started making the sounds again, this time running her finger from the right of the symbols to the left. The tones were elongated and awkward, like someone singing a song they didn’t know, in a language they weren’t too familiar with, but she heard it. As distorted as it was, the tune was there.

Arion heard it, too. “That’s a weave,” she said from across the room.

“What’s a weave?” Brin asked. “You mean it’s a spell? So if I were to finish this, I would make something magical happen?”

“No,” Arion said. “You have no power.”

“You’re just making patterns with string between your fingers,” Suri said, realizing for the first time how that piece fit. “But if you were an Artist and could draw from a source, you could weave with the real strings, the strings of creation—create the music of the world and alter its tone.”

“Yes,” Arion said. “Exactly.”

“How is this helping?” Moya asked. “Is this helping?”

“This is the last thing the Old One was working on before leaving this room,” Roan said.

“Wonderful, Roan,” Moya said. “How does that help?”

“It’s a magic spell,” Roan said.