“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.”
CHAPTER 46
At their makeshift camp, the hot mesquite campfire died to orange coals before dawn, but Nicci did not wake Bannon to change the watch. She needed little sleep, so she remained alert throughout the night, studying the nightmarish outlines of rock formations at the edge of the waning firelight. As soon as Thistle awoke, the girl crawled over to sit next to her. Neither of them said a word, but both stared into the darkness waiting for sunrise.
Bannon yawned, stretched, and got to his feet, brushing dirt and dried twigs from his clothes. Soon enough, they set off, leaving the comforting glow of their campfire embers behind.
As they made their way back toward the sheer wall of the plateau that rose up above the encroaching Scar, Nicci and Bannon picked their way along a wash, while Thistle scuttled ahead with the grace and agility of a darting lizard. They found a trickle of water and followed it up step after step of ocher slickrock. The trickling sounded like music after the dust devils and chemical haze of the desolation. The three spent long moments cupping their hands, filling their palms with drip after drip of cold water, which they splashed on their faces to wipe away the burning alkaline dust.
“Can the Lifedrinker still be watching us?” Thistle asked. “Even here?”
“He could be. There are other dangers, as well,” Nicci said. “Something in this world always wants to kill you. Don’t forget that.”
They moved on up the canyon. Reptiles darted among the rocks overhead, and Thistle glanced up at the ledges, tempted to hunt them, but she kept moving instead.
Bannon trudged through the rocks of the wash, keeping his sword in hand just in case. All night long, Nicci had sensed that predatory presence circling their camp, but she had heard no sound, seen no flashing eyes in the firelight. Now she again felt that oppressive sense of being watched. Following Bannon, she looked around, stared at the rock formations, and wondered if the evil wizard might stage another ambush. But she saw nothing.
Silent and unexpected, something heavy dropped from above and struck her in the back, an avalanche of tawny fur, slashing claws, and loud snarls. The blow knocked Nicci to the ground before she had a chance to release her magic.
Bannon yelled and spun around. Thistle cried out.
Hidden in the ruddy tan of the slickrock walls, two additional feline shapes sprang—huge sand-colored panthers with curved saberlike fangs and claws, like a fistful of sharp daggers.
When the first panther crashed down on Nicci, the blow knocked the wind out of her. She squirmed, trying to fight back. The beast was a dynamo of muscles, its body an engine of attack. It could kill her in mere seconds.
Nicci dodged the first swipe of its paw, but the other paw raked bloody furrows down her back, slicing open her black dress. The panther let out a roaring yowl and tried to clamp its fangs down on her head. Nicci didn’t have time or luxury of concentration to find its heart with her magic and stop it dead.