The Curse of Eternity

Death Twenty-One

Lord Jerrath stared at the blank sheave for nearly a candle. His quill tapped on his desk like a drunken man attempting a jig, resulting in the nib wearing down to a nub.

"If you continue staring, my Lord, the parchment will burst into flame and you'll bore a hole in the desk," Gregorie intones from his seat.

Lord Jerrath releases the quill and pinches the bridge of his nose with a disgruntled sigh saying, "I'd rather walk in the Twelve Depths than pen this invitation."

"You can always rescind the invitation for Lady Dal-Raseay."

"And risk offending the entire House? I dare not."

"I never said the action would be without consequence, merely stating you have the option," Gregoire responds, absentmindedly thumbing through a thick volume. The Internal and External Properties of Fire Based Plants, the spine read.

Lord Jerrath retrieves the quill, sharpens the nib and dips it into the inkwell. When the nib touches the parchment, a knock disturbs his concentration. Black ink swells and stains the parchment with a large blob.

Saved by the knock, he places the quill on its stand and caps the inkwell. The door opens, revealing Myorla and Ceres impeccably dressed with hands crossed formally over their midriffs. Myorla has sheaves of parchment tucked under her right arm.

The candle on his desk reads second yellow. Four candles have passed since he left Desolation and has accomplished nothing but a headache.

"Desolation is eating her mid-night meal," Myorla explains and walking toward the desk, she hands over a piece of parchment. The paper contains the Runes of Cybreesia and an unknown script.

He arches an eyebrow.

"Desolation cannot read or write Tiygressian. Instead, she uses characters for the blind."

Lord Jerrath studies the symbols, recognizing the characters as elaborate versions of Cybreesia's Touch. In his centuries of life, he'd seen these characters a handful of times. It was a system he never bothered to learn.

"Why come to me with this?"

"Whoever taught her went through tremendous effort, using this system to teach her Cybreecian."

Interesting.

Lord Jerrath understands the implications. Cyreesian was a dead language, only used in noble houses to showcase their royal blood. Even the most educated commoner would only know simple words and phrases solely pertaining to casting marques. Using the Runes of Cybreesia as a language is reserved for higher houses. Lowly commoners such as Desolation were not deigned fit to use the ancient, noble language.

He understands Myorla's concern, yet did not see the problem. Whoever taught Desolation, did a favor, teaching Desolation the runes, the ways of lous'rife and Will would be easier because she contained the necessary foundation.

Lord Jerrath knew Desolation couldn't read or write Tiygressian. Her mind whispered as much during breakfast. She had not mentioned Cybreesia's Touch and used rune names, it must have been hidden from her.

"I understand your concern but I have the utmost confidence in your teaching abilities."

"My Lord, I do not think my teaching will be enough."

"Explain." He inwardly sighs, knowing what Myorla will say but letting her vocalize her mind.

"Desolation writes in Cybreesian and doe not understand the importance. She can move her body like the Battle Priestesses and is enveloped in power we barely understand. Thank the Dyu's she hasn't killed herself or others. We all felt the power she demonstrated early night.