Scriber by Ben S. Dobson Page A

about that before you run your mouth off again.”
    Releasing my arm, she turned back towards the camp. “She still needs to know that Ord will live,” she said over her shoulder as she walked away. “And you might consider thanking her.”
    I was left alone on the dark hill. The women had returned to camp by then, taking torches and lanterns with them, and the only light remaining came from the stars and the dying embers of Janelyn’s pyre. In that dim light, I could see the huge, solitary shadow of Bryndine Errynson, still standing alone by the remains of the fire. I didn’t know what I wanted to say to her now, not after what Tenille had told me, but despite that, I found myself approaching her.
    “Scriber Dennon,” she said without turning away from the ashes. “What news of my cousin?”
    “He lives.” I had promised Ord that I would not tell her of his memory loss, but Tenille’s story had not left me sympathetic towards the High Commander. “But I am concerned about his mind. He could not remember why we were here, or who his officers were; not even your name.”
    “Do you think he will recover?”
    “I don’t know.”
    She nodded slowly. “He meant to have the King strip me of my rank, before he lost his senses. I suppose his men will remind him.”
    “Why did you not tell me what he had done? Why let me blame you?”
    “He is the High Commander of the King’s Army. The people must have faith in him if we hope to maintain Erryn’s Promise.”
    “You could tell the King what he planned. Counter his complaint with your own.”
    “My uncle will not take my side against Uran, Scriber Dennon. I imagine he already knew of the plan.”
    “You still should have warned us, whatever your orders. It might have saved lives.”
    “Yes. I know.” She never moved her eyes from the fire, or let so much as a hint of emotion color her voice.
    I wanted to grab her and shake her, to provoke some kind of reaction. Instead, I changed the subject. “A woman from Waymark blames you for her husband’s death,” I told her. “Josia Kellen. She is not in her right mind. She may try something.”
    “The innkeeper? I thought she had been burned in the fire. Did you treat her?”
    “No, I just spoke with her. She had no injuries I could see.” A shiver went through me—there was another kind of burning, one that left no mark.
    “She was trying to put the fire out at the inn during the battle when she collapsed, screaming. Some of my women heard her say she had been burned.”
    I rubbed my temple with two fingers. “She… It must have been the stress. I fainted myself.” Josia could not have suffered the same hallucination I did—it made no sense. But the fear did not leave me. She could not have heard the voices, but if she had, what did it mean? I didn’t want to consider the possibility. “More importantly, if she does something foolish… be gentle with her. She lost more than most last night.”
    “I will not harm her, Scriber.”
    “There is one more thing.” I steeled myself to ask the question I had been avoiding. “You know who I am. Why did you hide it?”
    She did turn to look at me then. “I suspected. I knew the name Dennon Lark. But I saw no reason to bring it up. You clearly wished to avoid recognition.”
    “But why trust me to help you, or treat your cousin? You know my reputation.”
    “That you were responsible for the collapse at the Old Garden while searching for the Archives? A tragedy, certainly, but it has little bearing on your training. When they tell stories of you, most forget to mention that before the accident you were quite the prodigy among the Scribers.”
    Her level tone set me off my guard. With Bryndine, I could never tell where I stood—her face and voice betrayed nothing of what she felt. Most people, when they found out who I was, reacted with anger that I had dared to defile holy ground, or that I had led men to their death; they found something in the rumors to