Captain, Sylla,” Genna teased gently. “He did help us get the people out of Waymark.”
“They would have come with us either way,” Sylla grumbled.
“But perhaps not willingly, Sylla,” said Bryndine. “As happy as you might have been to truss them up and carry the lot of them off in the wagon, I am glad we had Scriber Dennon’s help.”
I was not comfortable with Bryndine’s praise. My memory of the previous night was not clear, but I recalled a hazy image of her shield repelling Hareld’s axe—she had saved my life. I reminded myself that she had put it in danger to begin with by failing to warn the village when she first had the chance. I could not forgive her for that. A Scriber never forgets.
“Besides, Sylla, bringing the Scriber might help our case,” said Genna. “The Army Scribers are mostly Warfare trained, even Tenille. They can perform field treatment at best. If the Captain produces the Scriber who saves the High Commander, it won’t be ignored.”
“If he even is any better than the rest.” Sylla seemed disinclined to give me the benefit of the doubt. “He’s just the local Scriber for a little nothing village. All we know about him is that he can stitch a wound and wrap a bandage. That’s hardly more than field medicine.”
“I have reason to believe he has had the appropriate training, Sylla. I will bring him to Uran as soon as we make camp.” Bryndine’s tone was decisive, and Sylla let the matter drop with a sullen grunt.
I wondered what Bryndine had meant about my training. It was true that I had excelled in many fields at the Academy despite my focus being History; I was an accomplished student in the Schools of Medicine, Arts, and Politics, and I had even done some study in the Sciences. But Bryndine had acted as though she didn’t recognize my name when we first met, and if that was so, she had little reason to think more highly of my skills than Sylla did.
I was struck with the unpleasant feeling that she knew more about me than she had let on; perhaps she had spoken to Tenille. I would not be able to keep my history a secret when we arrived in Three Rivers in any case, but still, it irked me that Bryndine Errynson might have yet another reason to look down on me.
The women were done talking about anything that interested me, and I had questions that needed answering. I sat up in the back of the wagon, trying to act as though I had only just awoken.
As I crawled over the wagon’s cargo towards them, the three women noticed me and ceased their chatter. Sylla and Bryndine turned towards me, and Genna—who I recognized as the stout blond-haired woman I had seen charging a group of rebels the night before—turned her eyes away, focusing on steering the horses with unnecessary intensity.
“Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine greeted me. “Are you well?” She was too polite to directly ask me about my fit, but I heard the question lurking in her voice. I ignored it.
“I’m fine, Lady Bryndine.” The mistake in rank was an accident, but the look on Sylla’s face told me it had not gone unnoticed. I corrected myself before she could. “Sorry—Captain Bryndine. How did I get here? When I—” I paused, trying to think of a delicate way to avoid admitting I had fainted. “That is, the last I recall, the village was overrun by rebels.”
Bryndine quickly filled in the gap between when I had lost consciousness and the moment I had awoken in the wagon. It went much as I had suspected. Her company had held back the rebels as well as they could, given their numbers, but were unable to clear the road in order to evacuate the villagers. Fortunately, the First Company had arrived before they were overrun, and their appearance had sent the Burners running. None had been apprehended—the rebels had vanished as suddenly as they had arrived.
“Do they actually call themselves that? The Burners?” I asked, remembering what the whispers had said: We are the Burnt .
“I don’t
“They would have come with us either way,” Sylla grumbled.
“But perhaps not willingly, Sylla,” said Bryndine. “As happy as you might have been to truss them up and carry the lot of them off in the wagon, I am glad we had Scriber Dennon’s help.”
I was not comfortable with Bryndine’s praise. My memory of the previous night was not clear, but I recalled a hazy image of her shield repelling Hareld’s axe—she had saved my life. I reminded myself that she had put it in danger to begin with by failing to warn the village when she first had the chance. I could not forgive her for that. A Scriber never forgets.
“Besides, Sylla, bringing the Scriber might help our case,” said Genna. “The Army Scribers are mostly Warfare trained, even Tenille. They can perform field treatment at best. If the Captain produces the Scriber who saves the High Commander, it won’t be ignored.”
“If he even is any better than the rest.” Sylla seemed disinclined to give me the benefit of the doubt. “He’s just the local Scriber for a little nothing village. All we know about him is that he can stitch a wound and wrap a bandage. That’s hardly more than field medicine.”
“I have reason to believe he has had the appropriate training, Sylla. I will bring him to Uran as soon as we make camp.” Bryndine’s tone was decisive, and Sylla let the matter drop with a sullen grunt.
I wondered what Bryndine had meant about my training. It was true that I had excelled in many fields at the Academy despite my focus being History; I was an accomplished student in the Schools of Medicine, Arts, and Politics, and I had even done some study in the Sciences. But Bryndine had acted as though she didn’t recognize my name when we first met, and if that was so, she had little reason to think more highly of my skills than Sylla did.
I was struck with the unpleasant feeling that she knew more about me than she had let on; perhaps she had spoken to Tenille. I would not be able to keep my history a secret when we arrived in Three Rivers in any case, but still, it irked me that Bryndine Errynson might have yet another reason to look down on me.
The women were done talking about anything that interested me, and I had questions that needed answering. I sat up in the back of the wagon, trying to act as though I had only just awoken.
As I crawled over the wagon’s cargo towards them, the three women noticed me and ceased their chatter. Sylla and Bryndine turned towards me, and Genna—who I recognized as the stout blond-haired woman I had seen charging a group of rebels the night before—turned her eyes away, focusing on steering the horses with unnecessary intensity.
“Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine greeted me. “Are you well?” She was too polite to directly ask me about my fit, but I heard the question lurking in her voice. I ignored it.
“I’m fine, Lady Bryndine.” The mistake in rank was an accident, but the look on Sylla’s face told me it had not gone unnoticed. I corrected myself before she could. “Sorry—Captain Bryndine. How did I get here? When I—” I paused, trying to think of a delicate way to avoid admitting I had fainted. “That is, the last I recall, the village was overrun by rebels.”
Bryndine quickly filled in the gap between when I had lost consciousness and the moment I had awoken in the wagon. It went much as I had suspected. Her company had held back the rebels as well as they could, given their numbers, but were unable to clear the road in order to evacuate the villagers. Fortunately, the First Company had arrived before they were overrun, and their appearance had sent the Burners running. None had been apprehended—the rebels had vanished as suddenly as they had arrived.
“Do they actually call themselves that? The Burners?” I asked, remembering what the whispers had said: We are the Burnt .
“I don’t
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