It was already quite late, but while Aster slept with her scarf clutched in her hand, I sat down on the fur rug in the center of the room and looked at the books that had appeared on my bed. Somehow they had been laid in plain sight for me to find, as if I had forgotten them hidden beneath my mattress. In truth, I was so consumed with the business of staying alive, I almost had forgotten them. I had translated all of the Song of Venda on my way across the Cam Lanteux, but I’d had time to translate only one brief passage of Ve Feray Daclara au Gaudrel.
I pulled the small book from its sleeve and touched the embossed leather, fingering the burned corner. It had survived the centuries, a harrowing trip across the continent, and someone’s attempt to destroy it. Gaudrel. I wondered who she was, besides a storyteller from a group of wanderers.
The first passage had seemed to be a fanciful tale told to a child to distract her from her hunger, but even as I had translated it, I knew it had to be more. The Royal Scholar had hidden it away and even sent a bounty hunter to get it back.
I grabbed the vagabond primer from my saddlebag to help me translate, then settled in, puzzling it out word by word, line by line, beginning with the first passage again. Once upon a time, my child, there was a princess no bigger than you. It was a story of a journey, hope, and a girl who commanded the sun, moon, and stars. When I went on to the next passage, it was again a child asking for a story, but this time for one about a great storm. It was strangely reminiscent of the Morrighan Holy Text.
It was a storm, that’s all I remember,
A storm that wouldn’t end.
A great storm, she prompts.
I sigh, Yes, and pull her to my lap.
Once upon a time, child,
Long, long ago,
Seven stars were flung from the sky.
One to shake the mountains,
One to churn the seas,
One to choke the air,
And four to test the hearts of men.
Stars flung from the sky. Was it only a story, or was Gaudrel actually one of the surviving Ancients? A mere child herself when Aster hurtled a star to earth? That would explain why her story had errors. The Holy Text had been transcribed generation after generation by the best scholars in Morrighan, and it was clear that only one star brought on the devastation, not seven. But one or seven, it hardly mattered—for her, it was a storm that wouldn’t end. A storm that made the ways of old meaningless. She spoke of sharp knives and iron wills, but I stopped cold when I got to the part about scavengers. Gaudrel and this child were always running from beasts that were as hungry as they were. Were they the mythical pachegos of Infernaterr that the Vendans feared?
Each page was a glimpse of another time, and together they were a chronicle of events from long ago. Gaudrel’s history. Some passages seemed to be carefully phrased for a child’s ears, but others were brutally raw.
Aster stirred in her sleep, and I quickly skipped forward several pages. I would never get it all translated in one night. The next passage was a story about Gaudrel’s father.
Tell me again, Ama. About the warmth. Before.
The warmth came, child, from where I don’t know.
My father commanded, and it was there.
Was your father a god?
Was he a god? It seemed so.
He looked like a man.
But he was strong beyond reason,
Knowledgeable beyond possible,
Fearless beyond mortal,
Powerful as a—
Let me tell you the story, child, the story of my father.
Once upon a time, there was a man as great as the gods.…
But even the great can tremble with fear.
Even the great can fall.
I sat back, staring at the page. It was too eerily close to the Holy Text that said: They thought themselves only a step lower than the gods. Two histories swirled before my eyes, mixing like blood and water. Which history came first? The Morrighan Holy Text or the one I held in my hands? Aster rolled over, stretching, mumbling half-asleep, and wondering if I was coming to bed. “Soon,” I whispered. I rushed forward through the pages again, searching for more answers.
Where did she go, Ama?
She is gone, my child.
Stolen, like so many others.
But where?
I lift the child’s chin. Her eyes are sunken with hunger.
Come, let’s go find food together.
But the child grows older, her questions not so easily turned away.
She knew where to find food. We need her.
And that’s why she’s gone. Why they stole her.
You have the gift within you too, my child. Listen. Watch.
We’ll find food, some grass, some grain.
Will she be back?
She is beyond the wall. She is dead to us now.
No, she will not be back.
My sister Venda is one of them now.
Sisters?
I translated the last passage again, certain I had made a mistake, but it was true. Gaudrel and Venda were sisters. Venda was once a vagabond too.
And then I read more.
Let it be known,
They stole her,
My little one.
She reached back for me, screaming,
Ama.
She is a young woman now,
And this old woman couldn’t stop them.
Let it be known to the gods and generations,
They stole from the Remnant.
Harik, the thief, he stole my Morrighan,
Then sold her for a sack of grain,
To Aldrid the scavenger.
I closed the book, my palms damp. Stared at my lap, trying to understand. Trying to explain it away. Trying not to believe it.
It wasn’t just any child that Gaudrel told this history to.
It was Morrighan.
She was a girl not chosen by the gods, but stolen by a thief and sold to a scavenger. Harik wasn’t her father, as the Holy Text claimed. He was her abductor and seller. Aldrid, the revered founding father of a kingdom, was little more than a scavenger who bought a bride.
At least according to this history. I wasn’t sure what to believe.
Only one thing felt certain in my heart. Three women were torn apart. Three women who were once family.