3 Part 3

What I learned with my Master and Victorie made me feel more alive than I had ever been. Under my new Master's protection, I learned of the written language of Runic—realizing that each symbol represented a summarization of detailed descriptions. To their delight, I progressed very quickly and began mastering Words that even Victorie—who had been a pupil of this Art long before me—didn't even know.

The people who used these words were my people, my Master told me. They had various names throughout the Realms, but they had adopted one name, one Word that suited them quite well. A person of the Word, a wryter of one's own creations, and co-wryter of the Greater Story of the Prime Wryter Itself. They ... we ... are called Scrybes.

With Pen in one hand, and Book in the other, we crossed Realms of diversity and made almost whatever we desired with the written language of Runic—the ancient language of Creation itself. We understood one saying, the core belief of Scrybalism: Ol-arys khyl' altai.

There were six stages to a Scrybe's development: Student, Novice, Apprentice, Disciple, Master, and Grandmaster. Students and Novices apparently were taught in classes—as were Victorie and I in a rudimentary kind of way. I had already achieved the equivalent of Apprentice although my schooling was informal, and I didn't know what sect I wanted to be in. A Disciple had basic Scribal skills and belonged to a sect. They were usually called Scrybes. Then the Masters were Scrybes that taught others, and Grandmasters ... they had more or less mastered the Art itself.

Our Master told us of the Guild and its home-Realm in Scryuune. When I asked what it looked like, she said she couldn't tell me because it defied all description. All she said was, "It is a place where literacy is embraced above all else—where Words are not merely on paper."

I learned that the Guild was divided into seven sects. There were the Scroll-wrytes who made short-term Words on scrolls or parchments that anyone—including non-wryters—could use. The Rune-forgers inscribed Words of Power onto surfaces like metal or wood to either augment their strength or reform them. She said that it was rumored that they even made automatons—mechanisms of inanimate material that could move or even think. The Warscrybes were a warrior-caste that used strategic wryting in battle as their swords, and the Veil-weavers were those who could see into people's dreams, and could shape them as well. I might have belonged to the latter if things had turned out differently.

Then there were Chronoscrybes who could divine times long past or yet to be. It was whispered that the most powerful among them could re-wryte Time itself. The Source-invokers were also very interesting. They could find Words that could summon up ancient elemental powers within substances and even conjure or create living beings. I recall that Victorie wanted to be one of them. She could have, too. The final sect was the Scrybinders—the one that our Master belonged to. Their job was to edit and repair the works of the other sects so that no Errors would occur. In an existence where the slightest Word could affect the lives of billions, the Scrybinders were most important.

There was also some vague mention of two other sects that no longer existed, but at the time it wasn't that important. But after the mention of the Scrybinders, she told us about how all the Realms were once one great Realm until its Prime Wryter split it into a multitude of Minor Stories when the ancient Scrybes became too ambitious and re-wrote too many of the entity's works. That was the strange thing. The supreme deity in Scrybalism was neither male nor female like Oru, and It never directly interfered with its Creation unless one radically changed parts of it. It was removed—only a neutral factor in the culture, and not a direct one.

Our Master told us to imagine a Greater Story in which there were many Plots and sub-Plots within a manuscript that had to be immaculate and flawless. She then told us to imagine what would happen if there were the slightest inconsistency in the Story. That flaw or Error could destroy the whole Story, and so its Wryter had to act to correct that mistake. That was what destroyed many of the ancient Scrybes and segregated the Realms.

I watched her, seeing the awe upon her delicate, ivory face. "Then what is the difference between the Scrybes and the wryters?"

She laughed at the youthful query of mine. "My dear boy," she exclaimed, "That question is like asking whether the chicken or the egg came first. There are many answers I could give you. Some among us would have you believe that wryters are those with only the most limited skill who do not embrace Scrybalism or the Guild. They are just like religious fanatics; an ignorant group who think that all can be converted to their way of thought. Some would rather die ..." she sighed, then returned to the topic at hand. "They fail to see that the purpose of the Scrybal Guild is not to be another dogmatic faith like the one you are a slave to, my dear."

It burned then too. As she spoke those words, I felt the familiar taste of bile rise to my throat as I began to tremble in fury—a fury far too potent to be contained by one so young as I. I felt so limited, so trapped by the false sanctimonies that my religion symbolized. Her words cut deep not necessarily because they were cruel. Some say that the truth can be more painful than the most cleverly crafted of lies. Victorie sensed my mood, and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Do you want to know what my definition is?" my Master asked, more gently, breaking me away from the rage boiling inside my stomach. "A wryter is essentially what a Scrybe is—with or without the Guild's training. We do not let the power control us. We master it."

That was one of the many lessons I learned from her ... but it was only the beginning.

The years passed, and I kept my secrets well hidden from my family. My father was becoming very popular with the Theocracy hierarchy, and he rose through it. I knew he would eventually be a High Priest. My mother, however, did not fare so well. She died after my siblings grew up ... she died in silence. I wish there was more I could have said about her, but my father made sure there was nothing more to be said. According to the tenets of Oru, she was unimportant as a female, and my father would find another Handmaiden to take her place.

One day, as I was heading toward my Master's home in the earliest hours of the morning to continue my lesson, Victorie approached me with a wild, panicked look on her face.

"The Guards!" she panted, her voice hoarse, "They've been after me. They know about us!" As she grabbed my shoulders, I felt a deep, insidious horror worm its way into my gullet. "Your father knows."

We ran into our Master's home, knowing that her Runes of Secrecy would keep us from being found ... at least for a while. We hoped to find her and get her aid, but there were times that she wasn't there. Unfortunately, this day was one of them. Then, in the sheer stress and incredulity of the moment, we had another tryst. It was then that Victorie offered me something—something that would haunt me for the rest of my darkest days.

She got off of me and we sat, looking out of a window at the rising sun, the Great Temple's ivory form bathed in a monarch's cloak of crimson gold. Once I had stared at it and felt religious awe at glimpsing the seat of Oru's servants in the mortal plane. But when I saw it with Victorie, I merely admired it in terms of architecture, no longer in religious context.

Then again, I lie even now. I don't think I ever had any religious feelings or even reverence for the Light. Perhaps I lied at the beginning of the tale as well. It was more a fear of it that was deeply ingrained into my psyche—a fear of divine retribution. But it existed no longer, as I realized that if that were the case, the Theocracy would have long since been punished for the hypocrisy and corruption they covered up in the name of the Light that they paid lip-service to.

But I knew Victorie's beauty to be genuine—her inner beauty. She sat on the bed, and also stared at the sight. "It might sound strange, but I will miss this place," she turned to look into my eyes, "Let's get out of here. We can leave this place! Together!"

"I don't know ..." everything was happening far too fast for my mind to digest, "Let's wait for our Master."

"We can't," Victorie insisted, "We don't have enough time. She will be able to find us, but if we stay there's more of a chance that your father's men will get to us first. Perhaps we can sneak past them now, get to the closest Warp Gate, and find some Realm to take us in."

My mind was reeling. My father knew ... but for how long? I cursed myself for my carelessness. I had been so busy with my studies and letting my body think for me ... I was a fool. Someone must have seen Victorie and I ...

"My love," she caressed my cheek, "I'm with child." I grasped her shoulders and looked her in the eye, "You-you are?"

"Yes," she hugged me. "A baby. You're a father. That is why we have to leave. To make a better life for us—to make a better life for our child."

"I understand. My father will probably be out searching for us. You go to the Warp Gate," and before she could protest, I said, "I will need to get some money if we are to survive. If I get caught, you must go without me. I need to know that you will be safe."

After a moment, she nodded. "Good luck to you."

And we parted ways.

-

When I regained consciousness I found that I was locked in my room, the pure anxiety eating up my entrails as I prayed for Victorie's safety. My trip home had taken an unexpected turn. I remember walking in and hearing my father shout, "You have sheer gall returning here after the abomination you've participated in."

My heart sank as my plan to sneak into my home failed. My father confronted me, two Guards on either side on him. His face was red in livid rage as he struck me across the face, knocking me down. "That's where you've been—with that cheap, heathen whore."

"Don't you dare call her that!" I screamed at him, and I uttered my runes. The invisible force I conjured threw the two Guards by my father's side away. Then I felt something hard and heavy smash down on my skull. I collapsed.

"Black sorcery!" there was horror and indignation in my father's tone. "Warlock-spawn!" I almost didn't recognize my father's voice—either from the pure venom in it or the beginning of unconsciousness. "You dare defy me?" through my sparkling vision, two more Guards appeared. "Take him to his room. We will find his heathen paramour."

I gathered my books and money, trying to think of some way I could get out of the situation. But then, I saw something materialize through the door—an indistinct black shape. I stood back and saw it fade away to reveal my Master.

"How did you ..." I started to ask.

"It was a Rune of Cloaking," she interrupted. "I have to get you out of here ... now." She grabbed my arm.

"Yes, we have to find Victorie first."

She spared no time in telling me the awful truth. "They have her now," there was pain in my Master's eyes, "I heard that they found her at the Warp Gate. You know what will happen to her. We must go now, to Scryuune. You can have a new life there."

I knew that Victorie was already dead. Heathens were barely tolerated in the City of Light—especially when they interacted with the Sons of Oru. They had to be made an example of. Victorie ... her wry smile, and passionate eyes ... gone ...

"Look," she shouted through my grief, "We have to go now. She would have wanted you to leave this life behind."

"No," I mumbled, numbness spreading over my chest, "I don't want to go."

"We must. You will die if you stay here! Your 'first-born' status won't save you from execution. Your father knows what you are now!"

"Then let me die!" I snarled, the ache inside of me growing. "Don't you understand? I loved her! And now ..."

"No, listen to me," my Master grabbed my chin with what felt like claws of iron, "Listen! She would not want you to," I tried to shake my head, "No! Listen! Victorie wanted what was best for you. She would not want you to stay here, to waste your talent, and die like this. Do you really want to dishonor her memory by being this selfish?"

Finally, I broke away from my Master and paced around the room, letting the barbs of her harsh words take root into the cold soil of my mind. After a moment, I stared at her. "Before I do that, I want you to promise me something."

"What?"

"I want you to teach me," I still felt numb, but my words were clear and concise. "Teach me the Words that I will need to get them ... to make them pay for what they did to her! Do you understand?"

"Yes," my Master's dark eyes glittered, "Yes, my Apprentice. Do not worry, I shall."

Under her Cloak Rune we escaped my house, and the Guards. We eventually came to the Warp Gate—a large monolith with oblong rectangle pillars. My Master whispered something and put her hands on one of the pillars. The space in-between shimmered and convulsed—a pocket of reality becoming fluid enough to allow us passage to another world.

Once, I used to come to this Gate and wonder how they were made, admired the alien beauty of it. Now, I only knew it as the escape-route that it was. A non-wryter could only use the Gate to go to the Realm it was built to transport them to, but an experienced Scrybe could change the trajectory of the energy contained within the structure.

As we left the City of Light, I spared one last look at it. Its beauty was as superficial as its inhabitants, its singular colors and culture intolerant to variation, and my eyes. They killed her. They killed my Victorie. They killed an unborn child. They would pay for this.

Dearly.