Master Rubart was no help. He sighed visibly when Alia came bursting urgently through his door the next day straight from her cleaning shift--a habit that she knew she was repeating too often--but still, he seemed happy enough to see her. Guilty, knowing that enough of her problems already weighed on her mentor's shoulders, Alia was shy for a moment. But then she remembered the urgent nature of her errand and spoke with confidence.
"I'm sorry," she said, "I know you're very busy, and you've done so much for me already. But this isn't just for me--I can tell something is wrong with the Book. I need your expertise. I don't know enough to figure it out."
He inclined his grey head kindly and pushed his way out of the plush red velvet chair, moving stiffly with age for a moment as he passed in front of the fire. "Well then, lead the way, dear," he said with a rueful smile.
She nearly ran through the halls, stopping every few seconds when she remembered the pain in the older man's knees. As they moved, Alia's mouth worked frantically, trying desperately to express the unexplainable. "I told you, it felt off-balance. It does still. It feels like there's a--a wrongness tugging down one side of the weave, but I don't know where. I don't know how to tell where."
"The weave?" Master Rubart looked utterly flummoxed by her description, and Alia flushed, realizing she had never really explained her particular impression of the Book's magic before.
"Um... Because it takes all the stories of each Hero, like threads, and combines them into one thing."
"Fair enough." He still looked thoughtful, but at least he seemed to understand, even if the wrinkles on his forehead had deepened.
Finally they were at the door, and Alia bounced up and down on her toes in the outer chamber as Master Rubart carefully drew the unlocking sigil. The door swung open, and once inside, she shifted from foot to foot anxiously as the Scribe picked up the Book and held it with his eyes shut. He frowned ever so slightly, and Alia leaned forward as though she could see the inner workings of his mind if she just got close enough.
A long breathless moment passed, punctuated only by the moving shadows that overhead clouds cast through the sunlight. Finally, with a sigh, the oldern man carefully placed the Book back on its marble plinth.
"Alia, I'm sorry," he said. "I thought for a moment that I sensed something off-kilter, as you described, but I can't be sure. My Book magic does not have the detecting power of yours, I'm afraid."
She slumped in disapointment, but Master Rubart cut her off before she could sigh. "Don't slouch over, my dear. I believe you. Just because I cannot feel it doesn't mean it's not there. Why don't you tell me more about trying to feel for the--the flaw." He struggled with the last words, as though his thinning lips had trouble shaping them, and Alia could see how foreign the idea of a flaw in the Book was to this old Scribe.
With the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders, Alia stopped fidgeting and drew in a deep breath, trying to think back over the night before. "Well," she said slowly, "as I've already said, I tried to feel the Book as a whole but it was too vast, like counting each grain of sand in the desert or something. But then I realized that the only thing has changed since I last read the book was the inscription of a new Story--meaning the problem is most likely to be there."
Master Rubart made a non-committal almost surprised sounding noise. "Go on," he said when she stopped to look at him.
"I tried to feel through the story, but it feels... slippery? I don't know. It feels like it's struggling against the magic ever so slightly. Do you think... do you think it could be because someone lied?"
"That would be a very serious accusation," her mentor answered slowly. "We've been taught that it's impossible to lie once the storytelling magic is activated. But I suppose that's one possible theory."
"This is why I need you," she said beseechingly. "I don't know enough about the Book."
"Well," he said, "I think you may be on the right track. I don't have much more that I can offer you. We know the Book is undamageable, but perhaps something could go wrong in an individual Story."
"But how will we know where it went wrong?"
"Everything in the book is the people telling the Story, Alia. There's no outside narrator. The binding takes only from the Heroes themselves. So if you can find an inconsistency or figure out whose voice is bothering you, maybe we'll have somewhere to start."
"But I thought the First Scribe was the narrator? I don't know how I'll--"
A sound at the door cut her off, and teacher and student spun to see three harried-looking Scribes at the entrance, robes still swinging from their quick movement. Alia flinched, expecting censure, but they didn't even look at her. Master Calimbar led the group, and when he spoke he sounded alarmed. "Master Rubart, there you are! All Scribes are needed in the Library for an emergency meeting."
What? "I'll be right behind you," said the old man, and with that the priests strode off at an urgent pace, looking very grim.
"What's going on?" asked Alia, voice higher-pitched than usual.
"I don't know. Alia, we'll have to worry about this later." Master Rubart kept glancing anxiously toward the door.
"But how will I know which voice is whose?"
"Use your reasoning, talk to them--Alia, you're a brilliant girl. We'll come up with something. I have to go. You know Librum business has to come first." He gave her a gentle smile, softening the blow, but the dismissal stung anyway. Librum business could never be her business. She'd always be stuck at the fringes, never quite understanding what was going on.
With that, Alia found herself alone in the inner sanctum for the third time in as many days. "Bollocks!" she said out loud, enjoying the aggressive feel of the curse in her mouth. This time she was the only one who understood what was happening and still they would exclude her! She was sick of doing the proper things and following the rules.
All sense of reverence replaced by irritation, Alia plopped down with the Book and quickly flipped through to the Story.
In some places, the source was obvious: only Gavin Heartstrike knew what had happened to him when he was alone in the cave, and only Kitrell Silvertongue knew what he'd overheard coming from the wyrm's den. Other places, only two or three of the four had any experience, so that might be easier to puzzle out.
"What is the mystery here?" she murmured quietly to herself, running a finger across the opening paragraphs. "He did this quite cunningly..." Something about that phrase caught her attention. What had Master Rubart said? The only voices in the book were those of the Heroes.
"Adjectives!" Alia crowed, suddenly looking around self-consciously when her voice bounced off the stone walls. The adjectives had to be the opinions of whomever's story pieces were appearing at the time--the Book didn't know what was cunning, after all.
"Who thinks Mirabelle Flamelocks is cunning?" She sighed in response to her own question. Everyone, of course. That's no help. Then again, determining the voice didn't matter unless she first figured out which voice the flaw was in.
Alia forgot about the words and read very, very slowly, hoping to pinpoint some source to the chaos that wriggled through the magic. Her eyes widened as she turned the page. The movement was getting stronger as she read toward the middle of the story. Skipping ahead to the end, she reached out with her mind again.
Calmer. Working backwards, Alia could feel the strange ripples growing stronger in the story. It was like getting closer to the stone that had sent waves across a pond. She flew across the pages now, barely seeing what she read, and gradually she became aware that the sensation had faded again.
There was no word or sentence or even paragraph to pinpoint, but she was quite certain there was a center to the flaw. But Alia sighed again when she realized that the "center" was also around the climax of the story. Maybe it was just natural for a Story to be stronger at its most important moment. Still, though, at least that gave her a place to start.
In the distance, the bell began to toll, and Alia realized her detective work would have to wait. Right now she had to grab a quick meal and get to her Legends of the First Scribe class, or she was going to be very uncomfortable for the next few hours.
Class flew by--largely because Alia ignored the entire lecture, an unusual indulgence for her--and then she was due to fold the linens. She sighed as she walked past the corridor that led to the Book, but there was an advanced class in there that night anyway, and reading wasn't an option. Downstairs in the laundry, it was humid, hot, and miserable, and just like every other serving girl who passed through the door, Alia wrinkled her nose when she stepped inside.
The first towel was the tiniest bit scorched along one edge. Alia looked around for the Head Washer, chosen for the spark of magic that allowed them to manipulate the drying and heating spells. Finally, through the damp fog of the washing room, she spotted the tell-tale blue apron next to the soap vat.
"Excuse me... Oh!"
"Why, it's Alia!" The female figure resolved into a girl of about the same age as Alia, heavy with child.
"Parna! I didn't know you and Dell were expecting another!"
"Oh yes," the blonde chuckled, patting her rounded stomach. "How about you? Have you met someone? You still... studying?"
Alia smiled politely, but the other woman's discomfort was evident. "I am," was all she answered. Parna was an old playmate, and just like the others Alia'd grown up with in the kitchens, her friend's life had quickly outpaced hers. It was odd to see them now, all newly wed or trailing children around, but Alia had been enrolled in the Librum right as everyone else had first begun the flirtations that would turn into courting.
Priests of the Librum didn't wed or have children--and that was totally fine with Alia. All she wanted to do was understand the Book. Of course, they hadn't yet conceded to letting her test as a Scribe, but Alia wasn't about to endanger her chances by tying herself down to a man. Still though, it stung when old friends looked at her like she was to be pitied.
"Problem with the towel?" asked Parna awkwardly, shoving a hand up against the small of her back as if the small movement would support her heavy belly.
"Oh! Yes, it's gotten singed, I'm afraid. I wondered if the protection sigil had worn off a bit or something."
"Oh, that." Parna looked exasperated as she went on. "It's been happening all day. I'm new with it, and I think they've taught me the sigil wrong. It gets a bit squirrelly when I write it, and sometimes it doesn't quite protect as well as it ought. As long as they aren't damaged too badly, we're just sending the linens out anyway. The Head of Laundry is supposed to be down in a bit to see about it."
"Oh, alright then," Alia said, sounding somewhat doubtful. "Congratulations again!" She ducked off back toward the folding board, but her eyes stayed trained on the towel in her hands and for a moment, she almost looked afraid.
If a sigil had a mistake, it simply had no effect--and 'squirrelly' sounded uncomfortably close to what the Story had done in her mind.
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