Inkblots: A Tale of Magic, Adventure, and Romance

XXVII. Change of Plans

"Your Book, then, was the life's work of a Scribemage."

Alia hesitated. "According to this, yes," she said. "Or at least the sigils were. The Old Tongue." There was nothing here that directly contradicted the Stories, not really. The unnamed gods had given the truths to the first scribe, and he had shaped them into a book—the Book. Perhaps his shaping had involved a magic she'd never heard of—a magic that she now held a set of instructions for in hand—but this was not evidence that contradicted their history. She, said a small voice in her head. Well, except that the First Scribe couldn't have been a man, not according to this nor to what Liandra had said. Only a woman can be a Scribemage. This sounded deep within Alia, producing a quiet satisfaction. She wasn't sure if it was mere pride, some selfish hope that she herself could be the Heroine of this Story, or instead a more general satisfaction for her gender. After all, the Scribes had been so busy telling women they couldn't study the book that they'd failed to realize it was a she who had inscribed it. To see Head Scribe Palot's face when he learned this...

Her daydream was coldly interrupted, however, by a loud "Hmm," from Liandra. "And what are the odds that your Scribes will believe this?"

Alia's joints stiffened. "Low," she said, suddenly realizing. "They certainly wouldn't believe me." Bollocks, she thought to herself. The word was as satisfying as ever.

"So what will you do? You wanted to return with the answers so they would end your exile, but this is not the sort of answer they want."

"How—" Alia blushed, aware that her face had been red for the majority of the morning but powerless to stop it. "Was it that obvious?" She felt like a child, still trying to hide behind her Mami's skirts in the kitchens.

Liandra merely inclined her head.

What now? She hadn't even thought of the question until the older woman had said it. "Well, I'll have to prove it, then," she said cautiously. She felt the same trepidation as when Master Rubart quizzed her on particularly hard language problems.

This still garnered no response, though Liandra rubbed thoughtfully at her left knee.

"Oh," said Alia stupidly. "We need a Scribemage, then. Right?" She tagged the last word on anxiously when Liandra still didn't speak. But of course the old woman didn't know. Though this reminded Alia of nothing more than the philosophical conundrums Master Rubart would guide her through sometimes, sitting in his office in the waning dusk, there was a key difference. When her old teacher had discussed a hard concept with her, he'd kept a knowing twinkle in his brown eyes. One that said she was on the right track, and even if she wasn't, that he would reveal the answer eventually. But Liandra merely looked blank. No one knew the answers to these questions.

She tried to explain herself more fully. "If we had a Scribemage, he—she—could make a few sigils. Enough to show the Librum and the Council that the magic could be repaired. But how would we find one? You said they hide very well."

"I've known none other than my mother and my Khati," responded Liandra, sounding faintly sad. "Perhaps you should try another approach. Maybe Beldara was meant to end—they certainly treated their women and their Scribemages cruelly over the years. Why should one save them now, when they've received nothing but abuse?"

Alia's heart sank, but she wasn't ready to give up yet. She lifted her chin slightly, feeling stubborn. "I want to try," she said. "They aren't all bad." She thought of Master Rubart, of her mother, even of tired Parna in the kitchens. None of them deserved to be abandoned when there might still be hope. "How can you tell if someone is a Scribemage?" Maybe she could recognize one, even if no one would admit to it.