You.”
She let out a breath, closed her eyes, and yearned for the day when she could answer this question without feeling inadequate. “This is my first.”
The hall dead-ended in a circular clearing, from which seven more paths branched out into the stacks. By twisting and turning through the maze of those paths, one could reach any scroll in the archives. A shallow bowl of cold iron rested on the stone floor, precisely in the clearing’s center. “We’re here.”
Abelard drew up short. He looked from shelved scrolls, to Tara, to the bowl, and back to the shelves. Tara waited, and wished she could peek inside his mind without damaging it.
At last, his thoughts resolved into language. He cleared his throat, the ugly human sound echoing amid the books. “I was hoping for, you know, a…” He glanced back at the bowl, and made some vague gestures with his hands. “A desk. Or a chair, at least.”
Tara blinked. “Whatever for?”
“Reading?”
“That’s why we have the bowl.”
“So we put the books … in … the bowl?”
Comprehension dawned. She tried to keep a straight face, because Abelard didn’t deserve further ridicule, but in the end she had to physically stifle a laugh.
“This is some Craft thing, isn’t it?”
“You thought we were going to read this entire room? Tonight?” She walked over to the bowl and tapped it with the toe of her boot. It rang a deeper note than its size and thickness suggested. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t know,” Abelard said, defensive, “that there was another option.”
“Look.” She extended one hand and a scroll floated from the nearest shelf to her palm. Unrolling it, she revealed a carefully drawn list of abbreviated names, dates, figures, and arcane symbols, divided in neat rows and columns and simplified to the third normal form. “Your Craftsmen and Craftswomen told you to format your records this way, right?”
He nodded.
“They also set up the archive? Told your scribes and monks where to store everything, and in what order?”
Another nod.
“Why do you think that was?”
“I don’t know. Someone had to do it.”
Come on, Tara thought. New kid, monastery kid, churchgoer, and engineer. You’ve lived in the dark so long you’ve forgotten that everything has a reason. She beckoned him toward the center of the clearing. “I’m going to show you a trick.”
He hesitated, suddenly aware that he was alone with a woman he barely trusted, a woman who, had they met only a few decades before, would have tried to kill him and destroy the god he served. Tara hated propaganda for this reason. Stories always outlasted their usefulness.
“Give me your arm,” she said.
He shot a terrified glance at the iron bowl. “Hell no.”
“It’s absolutely safe.” Yokel. “Look, I’ll go first, but you need to promise me that after I show you, you’ll do as I tell you immediately.”
“Okay,” he said, uncomprehending.
“Great.” Tara reached beneath her jacket, to the neckline of her blouse, and opened her heart. The shadows about them deepened; her nerves tingled, half as though she were holding something and half as though her palm had gone to sleep. Cold blue light sparked between her fingers. Because she was doing this slowly for his benefit, she felt the aftershock of her knife’s detachment, a tremor in her soul like a caress from everyone who had ever wronged her.
Her expression must have betrayed some hint of pain or grief, but if it had, Abelard was too busy recoiling with fear to notice. The hairs on his arm stood at unquestioning attention.
“Never seen a knife before?” She held the blade before her face. It crackled.
It took him a few tries to find his voice. “I’ve never seen Craft so close.”
“You’ve seen Applied Theology, miracle work, right? This is the same principle, only instead of telling a god what I want, receiving power from him, vaguely directing it and letting him do all the hard parts, I do
She let out a breath, closed her eyes, and yearned for the day when she could answer this question without feeling inadequate. “This is my first.”
The hall dead-ended in a circular clearing, from which seven more paths branched out into the stacks. By twisting and turning through the maze of those paths, one could reach any scroll in the archives. A shallow bowl of cold iron rested on the stone floor, precisely in the clearing’s center. “We’re here.”
Abelard drew up short. He looked from shelved scrolls, to Tara, to the bowl, and back to the shelves. Tara waited, and wished she could peek inside his mind without damaging it.
At last, his thoughts resolved into language. He cleared his throat, the ugly human sound echoing amid the books. “I was hoping for, you know, a…” He glanced back at the bowl, and made some vague gestures with his hands. “A desk. Or a chair, at least.”
Tara blinked. “Whatever for?”
“Reading?”
“That’s why we have the bowl.”
“So we put the books … in … the bowl?”
Comprehension dawned. She tried to keep a straight face, because Abelard didn’t deserve further ridicule, but in the end she had to physically stifle a laugh.
“This is some Craft thing, isn’t it?”
“You thought we were going to read this entire room? Tonight?” She walked over to the bowl and tapped it with the toe of her boot. It rang a deeper note than its size and thickness suggested. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t know,” Abelard said, defensive, “that there was another option.”
“Look.” She extended one hand and a scroll floated from the nearest shelf to her palm. Unrolling it, she revealed a carefully drawn list of abbreviated names, dates, figures, and arcane symbols, divided in neat rows and columns and simplified to the third normal form. “Your Craftsmen and Craftswomen told you to format your records this way, right?”
He nodded.
“They also set up the archive? Told your scribes and monks where to store everything, and in what order?”
Another nod.
“Why do you think that was?”
“I don’t know. Someone had to do it.”
Come on, Tara thought. New kid, monastery kid, churchgoer, and engineer. You’ve lived in the dark so long you’ve forgotten that everything has a reason. She beckoned him toward the center of the clearing. “I’m going to show you a trick.”
He hesitated, suddenly aware that he was alone with a woman he barely trusted, a woman who, had they met only a few decades before, would have tried to kill him and destroy the god he served. Tara hated propaganda for this reason. Stories always outlasted their usefulness.
“Give me your arm,” she said.
He shot a terrified glance at the iron bowl. “Hell no.”
“It’s absolutely safe.” Yokel. “Look, I’ll go first, but you need to promise me that after I show you, you’ll do as I tell you immediately.”
“Okay,” he said, uncomprehending.
“Great.” Tara reached beneath her jacket, to the neckline of her blouse, and opened her heart. The shadows about them deepened; her nerves tingled, half as though she were holding something and half as though her palm had gone to sleep. Cold blue light sparked between her fingers. Because she was doing this slowly for his benefit, she felt the aftershock of her knife’s detachment, a tremor in her soul like a caress from everyone who had ever wronged her.
Her expression must have betrayed some hint of pain or grief, but if it had, Abelard was too busy recoiling with fear to notice. The hairs on his arm stood at unquestioning attention.
“Never seen a knife before?” She held the blade before her face. It crackled.
It took him a few tries to find his voice. “I’ve never seen Craft so close.”
“You’ve seen Applied Theology, miracle work, right? This is the same principle, only instead of telling a god what I want, receiving power from him, vaguely directing it and letting him do all the hard parts, I do
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