Undercurrent: Part IX

Quirinius' life had been confined to the streets and alleys of The Hook for so long that he'd quite forgotten how open the rest of the world was. It had been years since the sky had been anything more than a ribbon of blue or gray overhead between buildings looming closeby on either side. Walking up the road from town to the castle had been an eerie experience for him as walls and buildings vanished and he saw a wider horizon all around until he reached the castle gates. It felt...liberating.

And frightening.

Entering Camelot was not as difficult as he had feared. He'd heard that wards had been set to repel someone with evil intentions So Quirinius kept his mind firmly on the thought that he was here on legitimate business, which was only the plain truth. Other scholars frequently visited Camelot's library to study and copy the tomes there for themselves or some patron. What Quirinius was about was perfectly legal; it was what the Shadowlord intended to use this information for that might not be and the scribe was not about to concern himself with that.

The Shadowlord had been correct about the current affairs of Camelot. After the guards had passed him along inside with a few questions about his purpose for visiting the castle, Quirinius had lingered about in the courtyard with some of the present servants and scribes to hear the gossip. Most of the talk was about the mysterious Wasteland that had appeared in the north and the fate of the inhabitants of the lands there, but from this he learned that many of those who might have recalled his face had been among those who'd vanished. Of the others, Gabriel Morninglord was away on the Shadowland border to the south, and Lord Corwin was busy with personal business and raising his motherless children.

Best of all, the Chamberlain was indeed gone. It felt strange seeing the man's desk in the firehall empty but it also was a great relief.

That first day, Quirinius actually entered the firehall a few feet behind the new Guardian, just one more scribe in the midst of a raucous group of young castle staff arriving at the start of their shift. Once inside, he'd slipped into the library and got right to work. He'd brought his own supply of ink, quills and parchment, even some extra candles so that he would not attract attention for a replacement when he'd used up one of the library's. He found an empty table in a corner, fetched the scroll from the shelf where he'd recalled it was kept and went right to work.

That day and everyday thereafter, he repeated this routine. The scroll was from a time long before Arthur, centuries even before the Romans came, and was written in Welsh. Quirinius read and copied tales of the old British gods and wizards: Math and Don, Gwydion and Dylan. The magic of the tales and the serenity of the library wove a different sort of spell, and Quirinius lost track of the days.

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"Our mutual patron grows impatient." Cador lounged at the corner of an alley, blocking Quirinius from getting past him. "He wants to know how long before you're done?" Quirinius fought to keep his voice steady as he answered. The big innkeeper had a reputation for hitting people if he was unhappy with their answers to his questions. "A few more days. Remind him he said to copy everything. The part he is most interested in is near the end of the scroll."

"You can't write any faster?"

"It's in Welsh, Cador, and written centuries ago. Some of it's fading. I can't go any faster without possibly damaging the document and attracting the attention of the librarian. And we don't want that, do we?"

"Alright, Quill. I'll tell the man." Cador straightened and stepped out of Quirinius' way. "I recommended you for this job, Quill. Don't make me regret it."

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Two days later Quirinius reached the story of Bran the Blessed and his cauldron. At first it seemed like just another story, this one a tale of insult and revenge, but as he read on and reached the part about the disastrous trip to Ireland a thought began to take form in the scribe's mind, and when he read just how the King of Ireland made use of that cauldron, the thought became fear. Why would the Shadowlord want this tale at all, a myth about how the Irish king used the cauldron to bring dead soldiers back to life? He shuddered as he imagined an army of mute dead men.

He finished the copy, then grabbed another sheet of parchment and made a second copy of just the tale of Bran. He couldn't say why he did, but somehow he knew his life depended on this.

***********************

"Ah, Master Quirinius! We saw the signal. I assume you've finished with your work?" The man calling himself Hubert smiled benignly as he entered the shop, this time by way of the door where the black feather hung. He held out his hand expectantly. "I'll take it now, please."

Quirinius managed to hand over the stack of parchment without his hands trembling. He waited patiently as his patron turned pages to the tale that he'd wanted. "It's in Welsh. I can make a translation for you if you want."
"That won't be necessary. I read Welsh and speak it fluently." Hubert fished a second coinpurse out of his robe and laid it on the table, "Very well done."

Quirinius snatched it up. "Milord, might I ask you why these myths are of any interest to a man such as yourself?"

Hubert smiled. "No Quirinius. You may not. Good day to you, sir." And with that, he turned and walked out of the shop.

***********************

"You were right. He left the shop a half-hour after you did and scurried off back towards the castle." Cador leaned over the table as he whispered. It was evening and Fat Henry's tavern was starting to fill up with customers, but even so, it was not wise to speak too loudly on certain matters with others nearby.

"Disappointing!" Hubert frowned. "He's developed a conscience or sees a chance to profit from what he knows. We'll have to clean this mess up, Cador."

Cador grinned. "I think I know a man for the job. He's new around here so he's looking to make a name for himself."

"His name is Sagat."