The Wrannaman came slowly forward. His limp, acquired in the days Miriamele had first met him, had grown worse with the passing years. He explained the ancient source of the runes to the Inner Council, then read the message out loud. When he had finished, the throne room was silent for no little time.
“It is a trick,” said Earl Rowson at last. “Some damnable bit of trickery by the whiteskins, to put us off our guard.”
“That is possible, my lord,” said Tiamak mildly. “But if they would cozen us somehow, why concoct a story designed, not to make us think them harmless, but to put us on our guard? And why go to such strange lengths to pass it to us instead of just leaving it behind in an abandoned camp to be found?”
“The name Jarnulf means nothing to me, but I have heard rumors of something called the White Hand,” Duke Osric said. “It’s a tale told in the northern lands that sometimes makes its way south, a tribe of bandits by that name who prey on the Norns, killing them whenever they cross the border into mortal lands. But I thought it most likely only the memory of some ancient hero and his band, like Jack Mundwode.”
“That could be true,” the king said. “Or it could be an old name taken by someone new—someone with a grudge against the Norns. Tiamak, show them what else was with the message.”
Tiamak nodded and drew something shiny from the inner folds of his loose mantle, then set it out on the table. All of the council who had not seen it before leaned closer to look.
“But what is it?” Osric asked. “I do not recognize this badge.”
“I am not surprised,” Tiamak said. “For we keep our membership and our business quiet.”
“We?” asked Archbishop Gervis. “Do you mean you are somehow connected to this person, Lord Tiamak? The one who sent this message?”
Tiamak turned to Simon and Miriamele. “How much of the story do I tell, Majesties? For it is a long one.”
“As much as you need to,” Miriamele said. “Enough to show the members of the Inner Council why we must take this seriously.”
Tiamak nodded, and ran a hand through his dark, thinning hair. “First, my noble lords and ladies, you do not realize it but you have already met more than one member of the group that uses this symbol—the League of the Scroll.” He pointed to the end of the table. “Like me, Binabik of Yiqanuc is part of the League, and has been since his master gave him an emblem much like this one, back in the early days of the Storm King’s War.”
Binabik reached into the collar of his homespun shirt and pulled out a shining object, then held it up in his small, thick fingers. “And I have been wearing it with proudness ever since,” he said. “The League has done much for protecting peace and wisdom from those who are valuing neither one.”
“Your pardon, Lord Tiamak,” said Archbishop Gervis, “but I find this somewhat alarming. Do you mean that all the time you have been acting as advisor to the High Throne you have been also part of a secret guild? Are all your members foreigners?”
Tiamak shook his head. “If by ‘foreigners’ you mean those who look different from yourself, Your Excellency, then the answer is no. In fact, for many years before he disappeared, Prince Josua himself, King John’s younger son, was one of our number. And if Josua still lives, as Heaven grant, he may still be wearing the same token.” He smiled politely. “But this secret guild, as you name it, comes closer to home than that. My friend Father Strangyeard was also a part of it. You remember him, I trust?”
“Strangyeard? The royal chaplain?” Now Gervis looked openly baffled. “Of course I remember him, and still mourn his passing. A fine man, a godly man. What do you mean? What is this mysterious society?”
“With their Majesties’ leave, I will explain,” Tiamak told him. “The members of the League of the Scroll are scholars, bound by oath to preserve wisdom. It is a great honor, but also an onerous and sometimes fatal duty, since sometimes the only way to preserve wisdom is by fighting against those who would drag the world back into darkness. Several of our members died in the Storm King’s War. But dangerous as it may be, that duty cannot be asked for, as a man might ask for a royal favor. A position in the League must instead be granted by a current Scrollbearer—that is what we call ourselves—often when that member thinks his or her own time is short. If possible, the shiny emblem you see here, or at least one much like it, is given as well. You have seen Binabik’s, the gift of his master. I received mine from another good Aedonite, Father Dinivan of Nabban, when he fell defending the lector himself from Pryrates the red priest.”
“Father Dinivan? Lector Ranessin’s secretary?” Gervis seemed astonished to find another churchman involved. “I remember him, too!”
“Yes, Dinivan. And Strangyeard received his from Jarnauga of Tungoldyr when that good, wise man stayed behind, giving his life to enable Josua and his people to escape from Naglimund when all seemed lost.”
“Hold a moment,” said Duke Osric. “You say ‘Jarnauga’? But this fellow with the arrow is named Jarnulf, and obviously he is a Rimmersman too. Could he be some relative of the fellow you knew?”
Tiamak shook his head. “I never knew Jarnauga myself, because I was not at Josua’s castle, Naglimund, when Jarnauga came there. But Strangyeard thought very highly of him, especially considering the short time they had together. As to your question, it has occurred to Binabik and to me as well. But we have no answer. If Jarnauga had kin, no record of their names survive. Strangyeard never mentioned them, and Jarnauga’s own scroll and quill pendant is on my neck at this moment.” Tiamak reached into his mantle and produced another pendant, then carefully removed it and put it on the table beside the first. “By the form of his writing, though, this Jarnulf is from the tribe of Rimmersmen enslaved long ago by the Norns. Jarnauga of Tungoldyr was of the free Rimmersfolk, our allies under the dukes of Elvritshalla and the High Ward.”
“So if this Jarnulf is a member of your group of scholars,” Osric asked, “who made him so? Who gave him this?”
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but you move forward too swiftly. There are other things that are strange here. See how the League symbols of the honorable troll and myself are made of gold? This one is not. In truth, I have never heard of the League making such things in silver, not even in the earliest days of our company. But that is not all that puzzles us,” Tiamak said. “Binabik and I have examined this token carefully and made an interesting discovery.” He picked up his own chain and the necklace that had accompanied Jarnulf’s message, then handed them both to the duke. “Look closely. Tell me what you see.”
Osric held them close, squinting. “I see nothing. Perhaps this new one is a little less finely made.”
“You are right, my lord. Now turn it over.”
Osric raised an eyebrow, but did as the little man asked. “I see nothing of import.”
“Exactly. Now look at mine. Turn it over as you did the other.”
The duke stared for a moment, then his brow lifted in surprise. “There is writing on yours, but it is too damnable small for me to read.”
“There is writing because a Scrollbearer pendant must have it,” Tiamak said. “Those tiny letters, ‘POQM,’ signify the Nabbanai words, ‘Podos orbiem, quil meminit’—‘He who remembers can make the world anew.’
“But it’s not on the pendant this Jarnulf fellow sent, and his is silver, not gold. What does all that mean?” asked Simon.
“That we are fearing this letter found on the Frostmarch Road is likely not being from a true Scrollbearer, Duke Osric,” Binabik explained. “Or at least that the pendant itself is not being a genuine thing.”
“The motto goes back to King Simon’s ancestor, Ealhstan the Fisher King,” Tiamak said. “The one who founded the League. It is our credo, and you will find those letters scribed minutely on Binabik’s pendant as well, and Josua’s wherever he may be, and that of Lady Faiera of Perdruin. Together we are the last of the Scrollbearers.”
“The last?” asked Archbishop Gervis. He sounded as if that might almost be a relief.
“We have lost many of our wisest, and those of us who are still loyal to the League have been searching for new candidates equal to the responsibility. I confess that we Scrollbearers have let ourselves be distracted by other things in these years of relative peace. But now . . . well, suffice it to say that it seems there is need for the League once more.”