Serial Saturday: "The Last Inkweaver" Part 5

Part 5

"Dreams And Delirium"

The sun had sunk to the very top of the Academy steeples as I made my way across the Square. On the other end of the wide, central space stood the Council Building and the adjoining Great Hall, where all of Mirrorvale's social Gatherings were held. The Council Building, itself, held the offices for all the municipal authorities, the town records meticulously maintained since its founding, and all the laws that kept things running smoothly.

Around and between these were the common industry buildings: the tinker, the tailor, the baker, the butcher, the carpenter, the apothecary, and various other skilled workers whose job it was to create and maintain Factory-made items according to Factory standards. Mirrorvale was unusual, in that it was too far away from the closest Factory. Long ago, the town council had effectively argued against stripping dozens of buildings away for the sake of one large, unseemly warehouse, all in the name of "aesthetic." There had even been a few farms at first, tasked with growing crops and raising animals to provide our own food--but it wasn't long before the Civil Authority got wind of our self-sufficiency and stepped in, saying that everything grown and raised in Mirrorvale still had to be delivered to the Factory for processing. This kind of distant oversight didn't last long--the families all packed up and left after the second "Factory reaping." While this was happening, the Civil Authority got wind of all the other independent industries going on, and very soon, every one of our shops had to be beholden to the Factories in some way. The shoemaker could continue to receive shipments of shoes from the Factory to sell, and in the meantime repair any worn-out shoes until the next set arrived. The baker could continue to make her loaves, cakes, muffins, and rolls according to Factory recipes; Mistress Needle could serve as Mirrorvale's tailor, sewing dresses and trousers with Factory patterns and repair those clothes as necessary--and even though we had avoided the usual requirement of a centralized Factory Market, all the little shops around the Square functioned as one.

By-and-large, Mirrorvale could continue to pass itself off as a thriving municipality, even though just about everyone who lived here ended up dying here. Sure, we might see a few families arrive to settle here, and it might happen a few times in the course of a generation, but either they stayed long enough to earn their spot in Mirrorvale's long and tradition-laden history, or they didn't stay at all.

I gave a wry glance at the vacant inn set up at the end of the row of shops. It was built back when the City Planners believed Mirrorvale would become a thoroughfare to the western coast of Hemptor, just like all the other towns... but not even Mirrorvale's residents used the long trail to the Old Dockyard, anymore. Rather than being a gateway, this town had become very much an "end of the line" sort of place. In a way, it seemed like we had found a safe, predictable rhythm a long time ago, and never left it.

I trudged up the small hill at the edge of Mirrorvale proper, over the small copse that separated that half from all the houses where people lived and such, and turned around to get the best view of the town. I could see all the way from the inn and the carriage house across the street, back to the Academy and the Council Building--and just beyond that, The Wall.

I shivered when I saw the way the sun's rays seemed to pass beyond it, leaving the whole structure in shadow. The Wall had stood there, marking that particular edge of the town's boundaries, for as long as I could remember--but the only reason I had ever been given for its existence was "it stands as a memorial to the day the Wordspinners left." To hear some people talk, the Wordspinners themselves had built The Wall, as some kind of warning, or a threat, maybe--though what sort of threat could a wall really pose?

I gave myself a little shake to break the thrall that had come over me, and marched down the hill toward the clusters of stately, identical houses, grouped in sets of ten or twelve around circular communal spaces we called "loops."

Various neighbors moved around the outdoor spaces, gathering up their children, or getting one last walk in before the sun went down completely. I waved at a couple of neighbors who stood at the front of their loop.

"Good evening, Callista!" called the one whose name was Dorthy Galvesyn, a matronly sort with two brown braids hanging down her back.

I smiled and returned the wave. "Good evening!"

The other, a pinch-faced woman with close-cropped pewter-colored hair, scowled discreetly at me. Mrs. Cordelia hated being interrupted, and she loved to tell long-winded stories and complain about every little ache, pain, and inconvenience.

"Anyway," she resumed speaking as I passed, "I've just been to the apothecary for a sleeping tonic."

Dorthy clicked her tongue in sympathy. "Oh, is your back bothering you again?"

I had crossed the street already and reached the edge of my home loop, and I still caught Mrs. Cordelia's reply.

"It's not my back so much as a plague of memories that afflicts me," she said in a tone that sounded more boastful than pitiful. "Oh, my troubled mind will not let me rest!"

I entered the loop for my home and stopped. Some part of what Mrs. Cordelia said caught my attention and almost drove me back toward the women. If I didn't know any better, I could almost think that Mrs. Cordelia's "mental malady" was not too far off from the inconvenient "dreaming" I experienced almost on a daily basis!

I stood there, thinking about retracing my steps and asking Mrs. Cordelia about her experience with the "dreams", if that was what they were. One didn't talk about "dreams" in a proper society--well-bred ladies spoke of "memories" or "night worries" instead.

The thing that held me back, though, was the recollection of exactly what had happened the first and only time I tried to tell my parents about a dream I'd had.

I had just started Level 5 at the Academy, when one of the farms had a break-in at the last Waning of Verdant, and the intruder had slaughtered several animals and damaged the barn they were in, spoiling the newly-harvested crops as a result. No one could discern the culprit, and yet the notoriety increased to the point of four big-city investigators coming out to see what they could learn. They stayed at the inn, and they questioned many people, staking out the entire property and searching it over and over again, in every corner. People started mistrusting one another, and all sorts of secrets came out between people--but though the investigators stayed a week and scarred some relationships for the rest of time, still they had to leave empty-handed. Theories ran wild, from a jealous ex-lover or a roving band of crooks, to whole packs of savage dogs or wildcats--but nobody could confirm for sure exactly what had happened at that farm.

Nobody except me.

I remember dreaming about the farm in question, even before I knew that something so extreme happened there. I had the dream the exact same night it happened, and while I dreamed I actually felt like I stood there in the grass, just outside the gate, while three huge, wolves--all mangy and starved to skin-and-bones--trotted onto the farmer's land and slipped in through a loose board in the barn wall. I remember the screams of terror from the animals, and the awful crashing and banging of splintering wood as the wolves fought their way out again. Somehow, the dream gave me the impression that they had wandered deep into the forest and died of hunger by the first cold snap of Harvest--which would have been just after the investigators left Mirrorvale--but when I awoke in my bed and everything about me was totally normal, I took it for an errant burst of imagination.

My parents weren't so dismissive, however. The next morning, I remember Father describing the grisly scene of the purported crime, and I simply mentioned that I had dreamed of just such a scenario the night before--and the moment I said "dream", my Mother cried out in shock and said that I must have studied too hard and overtaxed my brain. They held me home from Academy classes, sending word to Headmaster Guillem that I had awoken with a case of "fever and delirium" and I would not be resuming my studies until I felt well again.

That was the part that scared me the most--their insistence that I must be unwell, when I felt absolutely fine. Every day, Mother let me stay home and do as I pleased (provided I didn't leave the house, and stayed in my room when guests came over), and every morning, they would ask if I'd had any more dreams. For two weeks, I did dream, but it was the same event over and over again. Meanwhile, the investigators still pressured the town as if a person was at fault for the whole thing, but when all their efforts still did not produce a satisfying culprit for them to arrest (because in fact no person was actually guilty!), they gave up and returned from whence they came. From what I heard, they didn't even offer the farmer any kind of compensation or assistance.

By the time I finally felt miserable and bored enough to inform my parents that the dreams had "stopped" (they hadn't), and that I had recovered enough mental acuity to prevent them from ever happening again (as if I had any control over the thoughts in my brain), I was sure of two things:

First, the vision I had witnessed was the actual truth, but no one else seemed to realize that, so I could never figure out how to confirm it; and

Second, I was never going to mention any kind of dreaming or speculation to my parents ever again.

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Serial Saturday: "The Last Inkweaver" Part 4

 Part 4

"Information Gap"

I stood in the midst of several huts made of various natural materials: sticks, stones, mud, and even animal hides or canvas. Everyone around me, moving in and out of those buildings wore the same kind of old-fashioned clothing, robes and tunics instead of dresses and trousers.

"The Wordspinners serve the community by their craft," a large, warm voice boomed out from all around me. I watched a dark-haired man with a short beard--looking a good deal more civilized than the rest of these villagers--emerge from a canvas tent. He smiled and greeted the people he saw, and they responded with courtesy and politeness. Was I looking at Dobran Allius, himself?

"They made clothes and wares for the people, and also grew plants for food and medicine to give to those who needed it, as well," continued the voice, and I saw several booths just like the one I'd witnessed in History class, with people selecting items they wanted, or the seller picking out what they wished to distribute.

The ground before me tilted and twisted, and when my vision balanced again, I saw the small settlement had been replaced with a large village of modern buildings. For the second time that day, I saw the woman selling hand-made pots outside the Factory Market, and the people walking by as if they never even noticed her.

"The King's reforms are less about fixing what is necessarily wrong with the native's practices," observed my disembodied narrator, "and more designed to alter and replace their normal way of life. However..." and here the scene shifted to the grand hall of some palace or something. I saw a crowd of courtiers in fine clothing. Some of them bore a grand medallion hanging from their necks. "With the relocation came opportunities. The King saw much benefit in welcoming a few Wordspinners into his court. He heeded their advice, and the land flourished. So began a Golden Age for the kingdom of Gramble..."

I watched the medallion-wearing people gathered around the king, and it all made sense somehow in my mind. Were these the Wordspinners?

The ground lurched again, and I felt someone grab my hand...

"Whoa, Callista, are you all right?" Terra's voice broke through the dense fog around my senses, at at a blink, I was back in a seat a the table in the Academy library. Dobran Allius' book, mercifully, had been placed out of my reach.

I inhaled a deep breath, feeling exactly the way I did when swimming underwater for too long.

I stared at the fair face beside me. "Terra! How long was I out this time?"

Terra's face was rarely serious, but she looked it now. She fiddled with the laces of her bodice as she declared, "Out? You mean you had one of your bizarre memory-flashes just now? You've only been sitting there long enough for me to finish the passage and realize you'd stopped moving." Her hands lifted to the edge of her collar. "Well? Tell me everything! What did you see?" She leaned forward with a giddy expression on her face.

For once, I didn't feel afraid of discussing this strange phenomenon. Terra was the only person I could talk to about it, and between the two of us, she had been the first to embrace it as something exciting for me, rather than evidence of some aberration in my brain.

I stared down at my notes, once so thorough and concise, now sounding so pedantic and hollow, after what I'd just witnessed.

"I saw the Wordspinner encampment," I said, "and the same seller's booth I witnessed in History Class." I gave her a meaningful glance. "And that is what sparked my outburst in the middle of Scholar Mikel's lecture--what he was saying didn't match up with what I was seeing, and I wanted to know which one to believe."

Terra made a contemptuous noise and leaned back, easing the tension on the laces of her bodice. We were taught during our formative seasons that a flat stomach appeared healthier than a distended, bulbous one--but on girls like poor Terra who enjoyed good food far too much for the limited capacity of the laces, the effect was rather less aesthetic and more tortuous. "It wouldn't be the first time our authorities chose to ignore the obvious in favor of the preferable narrative." She perked up with a sly grin. "At least you were sitting down for both flashes, so you didn't start wandering around in the middle of class! Wouldn't that have been hilarious?"

I snorted and went back to my notes, filling in the details based on what I'd heard from Dobran Allius. "Of course, Terra--it's always absolutely amusing to go dashing about like a headless chicken, with my eyes seeing impossible dangers that aren't even real!" Terra had seen it happen to me before: if I was standing when the images overtook me, I tended to wander around within them, my eyes not registering the same places my feet traveled. As a result, I ended up in more strange, out-of-the-way places than I was comfortable with! "Anyways, this time I heard... I think I was hearing Allius giving his own account."

"Oh wow!" Terra breathed, leaning in and running her fingers over the sweeping script. "Like, you heard from the Explorer himself? Was he old and creaky? Did it sound really pompous and stuffy, or did he have a strange accent that twisted his words into unintelligible gobbledegook?"

"Terra!" I folded my brow at her. "He just spoke, it sounded normal, and I think--" I broke off speaking as I reached for the journal. I hesitated to pull back the cover, after what had just happened to me, but I had to see for myself.

I glanced through the words on the pages, and his kind, calm voice rang in my ears as I comprehended the words, but thankfully my psyche remained rooted in the present.

"Unbelievable!" I muttered, reading the very words that had narrated my experience just moments earlier. Even entries that the visions had somehow skipped still filled in the missing details, resounding in that same voice."It's the same as Senevere's report," I mused, flipping back in my notebook to compare, "but so different!"

Allius spoke of the Golden Age, yes--but Wordspinners were still accepted as contributing members of the burgeoning society. They weren't welcome at the Academies because of their religious ties, of course, but they could still make and sell wares in the local market square. According to this record, as Academies taught and trained more of each generation, the number of Wordspinners arrested, accused of spreading falsehoods and tried for treason also increased. Allius at one point concluded that they retreated into hiding, and then died out in obscurity some time later.

I scribbled down what I could of Allius' perspective, and handed the book back to Terra.

"You need to put this back exactly where you found it," I warned her. "I don't want either of us to get into trouble for breaking the rules!"

Terra nodded and eased over to the shelf as I put away my pencil, packed up the notebook, and left the book exactly as the Archivist directed. High over our heads, the great bell tolled the end of one class period and the impending start of the next.

Something in the sound gave me pause. I felt as if we'd been in the library for three days, not just half a class period.

On our way out, I asked the Archivist, "How many times has the bell rang since we entered?"

He sniffed and stepped out from his desk. "The bell? It's rung twice since you walked in."

Twice! I grabbed Terra's hand and groaned. "I've missed Sewing," I muttered. "Mistress Needle is going to expect me to make it up tomorrow. Why didn't you tell me the first time the bell rang?"

Terra wagged her head. "You were out of it, I suppose--I thought we both heard it, and the reason you didn't respond is that you had permission to skip as many class periods as you needed for this project. How was I supposed to know you were up to your eyeballs in some invisible environment?"

"But you could have left me!" We emerged in the hallway at about the same time as other ranks of students swapping classrooms. "Just because I had permission didn't mean you could also stay behind!"

Terra tossed her lively red curls. "It's only Dance--I'm Level 9 competent in that subject already. But let's get back to you." She fixed her gaze on me and pressed her lips. "Are you going to be all right? Two memory-flashes in one day--"

"Hush!" I gripped her arm and gave it a little shake to stop her as eyes slid and heads turned ever so slightly in our direction.

Terra didn't take the hint. "Well, I mean, really--aren't you the least little bit curious as to why it happens all of a sudden, and today has seemed worse than ever--you don't think people have already noticed and are starting to wonder?"

"Not if I can help it!" I retorted, falling in line for Level 9 Etiquette. "Go on to Music, Terra. We'll talk about this later."

Sitting in my straight-backed chair, listening as Madame Collette explained the proper use of one's fan for communicating careful signals, I thought about Terra's parting words.

Why was I singularly plagued with these rampant memories that hardly seemed to have anything to do with me? What did it mean when one historical account reflected everything I'd been taught, and another one triggered bizarre visions and communicated just the opposite?

I blandly went through the motions of the lesson, copying Madam Collette exactly, and the final bell rang to release me. I shuffled along with the crowd flowing toward the front doors of the Academy, my thoughts spinning as I thought of my house, my family, and the long, confusing essay I would need to write before tomorrow.

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Serial Saturday: "The Last Inkweaver" Part 3

Part 3

"Research Project"

The atmosphere inside those doors was hushed, and very empty-feeling.

"Wow," Terra hissed in my ear, "It's so quiet and dark in here!"

It was true, the thick, vaulted windows only let in so much light, and most of it was swallowed by the copious amounts of dust swirling in the air. The Academy severely limited the number of students could be allowed in this space at one time, and one especially did not go wandering among these shelves stocked with ancient books alone.

The Archivist led me down the rows of shelves until he found the one containing the accounts from early Gramblian history. He verified the title Scholar Mikel had written, and selected that book.

"You may record notes from the text as needed," he informed me, laying the book on a long, empty table stretched between bookshelves. Placed at the center of that table was a small box containing bound stacks of parchment and more pencils. "Please do not remove this book from the library. It is the property of The Academy. When you are finished, leave the book on the table, and I will come by and re-shelve it later. If you need another book, you must ask me first."

I nodded my thanks and glanced behind me--but Terra had disappeared. Had she gotten bored already and walked out?

The Archivist strode back to his desk at the front of the library, and I flipped open the book to begin taking notes.

"Eighteenth day of Renewal, in the Third Cycle of King Malacuse's Reign.
Explorer Senevere reports that the Western land beyond the Fforgan Mountains is indeed wild and untamed. We have charted many miles without encountering another human. Today is the third day since navigating the treacherous Fforgan Pass, and we have come upon one of the isolated communities, a cluster of family groups who seem native to this land. They are wary of us, and Senevere senses a strong undercurrent of superstition, in the way they interact with one another, and the strange quirks of their habits. When Senevere asked to speak with their leader, his words seemed to have little effect upon the people..."

I rubbed my eyes as the words began to swim. I clenched my hands into fists and focused on the shape of each word. I would not be swept into another one of those strange memory-flashes--especially since it was that very thing that landed me in such trouble in the first place!

I read on, taking careful notes on every observation Senevere recorded. It was a little irksome, the way the "careful record" seemed to skip anywhere from three to five days at once, and occasionally I found, by observing the trend in my notes, that Senevere had this habit of assuming one thing about the "native culture" and then finding out that it was actually something subversive and dangerous to the "civil reforms" cause King Malacuse wanted to implement, even in lands so far away from the central kingdom.

I had to admit, though--the more I read, the more evidence I had that supported the way Scholar Mikel taught. There were several points where Senevere introduced the term of "Wordspinner" to refer to a religious sect among these "natives" (so, not all natives were Wordspinners, but all Wordspinners were native to Western Hemptor?) who harbored some kind of resentment toward the colonization attempts directed by King Malacuse. "The land is fertile and spacious," Senevere reported, "with plenty of resources to benefit the kingdom... Yet these Wordspinners seem averse to the relocation proposition..."

I rubbed the corners of my eyes, and focused on shaping the letters as I scribbled down notes. The pencil felt heavy in my hand as I noted the first mention of Wordspinners in Senevere's account. Five days after that entry, Senevere again noted, "We have succeeded in convincing large numbers of the indigenous population to move into the newly-established cities, inviting them to pursue opportunities for trade and industry. Still, the Wordspinners continue to spread their propaganda, stirring the people even to the point of blocking the Pass and preventing any movement in or out of the Western lands."

"How's it going?"

Hands landed on the table next to me and I jumped, leaving a thick dark mark across the remainder of the page.

I scrunched my nose at Terra's cheeky grin. "Where have you been?" I hissed in a low voice. "You're not supposed to run off in the library!"

Terra blinked wide, innocent eyes. "I was just looking!" She glanced at my notebook. "What are you writing about? Wordspinners?" Her face lit up and she stared at me. "Oh, is that what the argument in History class was about?"

I clapped my hands over the pages of my notebook. "I don't--that wasn't... How did you know about that?"

Terra waltzed around the table, her eyes roaming the shelves. "Oh, I suppose I might have overheard somebody in Art say that there had been a massive row in History class--somebody trying to discredit a Scholar... and That Somebody got called up after class." She turned and gave me an unladylike wink. "I should have known it might have been you, Callista!"

I gave a small huff. "I wasn't trying to discredit him!" Gracious! Was that the rumor going around about me now? I tried to ignore Terra's amusement and refocus on my task, noting that the events took a sharp downward trend from that point onward. "The King's Army has dispersed the rebels blocking the Pass... All Wordspinners have been dispersed on either side of the mountains, no more than two or three in a large city at a time... Most Wordspinners have taken up a nomadic lifestyle, wandering from place to place and making their home in the unsettled places..." Further on, I read of the "rebellion" Scholar Mikel had alluded to, and how that had led to a series of trials finding many Wordspinners guilty of sedition, and in support of treasonous plots against the King.

The final blow came early the reign of King Phillisto, predecessor to the current king, King Desmond. According to Senevere, by the time Phillisto came to power, the Wordspinners were again attempting to seize power, gaining favor among the simple folk of the smaller villages, and attempting to spread their "religious texts laced with underhanded misinformation" around the larger cities--but already, the social and philosophical advancements had turned the tide against these "superstitious mystics", and with the ushering in of a Golden Age of enlightenment and industrial prowess came the Academies. The emphasis on intellectualism led more and more people to abandon the abstract and often harsh teachings of the Wordspinners, and as their popularity dwindled, so did their numbers, fading away to almost nothing, till the only ones left were the criminals who spoke out against the King and got arrested and tried for it anyway.

I glanced between my notes and the recorded account. Nearly everything Scholar Mikel had to say on the subject was indeed referenced in Korstan Senevere's reports. Even the partial information he would ostensibly give at the less advanced levels was still according to the recorded evidence.

What still rankled me was the way Senevere would skip three and even five days between reports, and commence discussing a rapid change in manner and dealing, saying one thing at first, and two entries later, affirming the opposite. He was consistent in his inconsistency--why could I not leave well enough alone?

I flipped back to the beginning of the book, intent on reading it all the way through again if I had to.
"I just want to find out the truth!" I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

"Hey!" Terra's voice issued from behind me. I heard her grunt as if she was reaching for something. "Look what I found!" She dropped a second book on the table in front of me.

I jerked back as if it had been a snake.
"Terra!" I snapped, staring at her in shock. "Put it back! Only the Archivist can remove books from the shelves! I don't have permission for this one!"

"But look!" Terra pointed to the title: The Personal Account of Dobran Allius, As He Lived Among The Wordspinners. "You wanted to find out about the Wordspinners, didn't you? Maybe this has more of the kind of information you're looking for!"

I stared at the offending item. Did I really want to find out about Wordspinners, or was I only looking for information to satisfy Scholar Mikel?

Terra grew tired of waiting for me to make up my mind, and she reached for the book herself, flipping it open. "Here it is, listen! As I listened to the inhabitants of this village, I began to discern that they referred to themselves as Wordspinners, and that they professed to be guided by an ideology known simply as The Truth..."

I felt my eyelids droop and my vision blurred as Terra spoke. I tried to reach out for her, tried to tell her that something was wrong, but my voice didn't come out. My fingertips rested on the cover of the open book, and by the time my eyes refocused, I was looking at something else entirely.

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Serial Saturday: "The Last Inkweaver" Part 2

Part 2

"Compost and Consequences"

I saw the lines of students flowing from one classroom to another, and felt a rush of relief. I wasn't late for my next class until I heard the bell. I joined a file of Level 9 students headed toward the Science classrooms. I liked having Science after History, because the instructor, Madame Hephreny, was infinitely more interesting than Scholar Mikel--and she was certainly not as adamant about students taking specific notes and never bringing up questions in class. For all his touting of the "scientific method", I couldn't help feeling that, judging by the teaching methods, actual science seemed very much more of a lax subject than history was!

I took my place behind a small table with a row of plants laid out upon it. Beside me, a new student fiddled with the stems--something Madame Hephreny had warned us time and again that we were never to do. I couldn't blame her though; her family had just moved to Mirrorvale, and by "just", I meant "back when I was young, and she barely a toddling." There were a lot of families like mine, who had lived in Mirrorvale for generations, and so anybody who couldn't claim that was regarded as "new" and such a reputation was very hard to outlive.

I suppose the other reason I still considered her "new" was that I hardly knew her. I learned from attendance that her name was Sheranne; she'd only just attained Level 9 in Science, and she was still at a lower level for many other classes, so there weren't very many places we could interact.
WHAP.

I flinched along with everybody else as Madame Hephreny's long pointer slapped across the table in front of Sheranne. Her curly golden hair bounced in time with her movements.

"Students should not be touching the items on their desk without direction," Madame declared in her customary sing-song voice. "Please listen and follow directions while you are in my class!"

Sheranne colored bright vermillion, and hid her face at the gentle reprimand. The students who had been in this classroom for many seasons snickered at her embarrassment. We'd all experienced it at one time or another. I didn't laugh. We moved on through the lesson, on the concept of photosynthesis and the correlation between chlorophyll and sunlight, its effect on plants, and the various creatures involved in the life processes of plants.

Madame Hephreny calmly read through the textbook, directing us in the dissection of the various flowers and leaves before us--until she came to the topic near the end of the lesson. At her direction, a pair of assistants brought in a putrid bucket of what could only be described as sludge of varying consistency. Most of us held our noses. Sheranne covered her face.

"Now we arrive at an extremely important part of a plant's life cycle. Ordinarily, a plant that has been used and consumed is considered waste, as are the bits that cannot be consumed--but that, my dears, is not the end!" She set aside the book and eagerly plunged her bare hands into the bucket. We all heard the squelch. I noticed Sheranne start to tremble beside me, wavering on her feet.

"Behold," Madame Hephreny held up a mound of black and blue goop in her hands, "Compost!"

I heard the noise Sheranne made, saw the splatter hit the floor--and the whole classroom dissolved into chaos. Younger students screamed, some boys jeered, and poor Sheranne--vomit all down her dress, looking like she wanted to faint.

Madame Hephreny stood at the front of the classroom, eyes wide, doing her best to try and raise her voice over the clamor as her hands full of compost rendered her immobile. She did her best, but everyone was all over the place, crying, and laughing and yelling.

A ringing bell arrested everyone's attention, and we all faced the front, where an assistant held the brass bell Madame Hephreny kept at the front of the class for emergencies. She let the pile of compost drop, as the other assistant brought a towel.

"You are all dismissed!" she said, rushing over to Sheranne. The poor girl's face was pale, and she quaked from head to toe.

"B-but the bell hasn't rung--" Someone started to protest.

"I don't care!" Madame Hephreny's voice had lost its songlike quality. She waved her arm at all of us. "Get out of this classroom this instant! I have nothing more to say to you all!"

We all filed miserably into the empty hallway. The other classrooms were filled with students still--until that bell rang and we could shift classes, the whole group had nothing to do.

Well, everyone who wasn't me, that is.

I pulled out Scholar Mikel's permission slip, and headed down the hallway toward the south wing, where the library was located. I passed by the Etiquette classrooms on the way--a Level 8 group was just arriving at the door. My eyes immediately focused on a certain head of dark hair, and I felt a smile and a warmth spreading over my face before I could stop it. Of course I stared too long, and just as I passed, the dark head turned to face me, and the clear blue eyes smiled.

How much had changed in only four seasons! I hardly believed I was looking at the same Matthias I had known almost all my life.

There was once a time when we were inseparable: me, Matthias, and our friend Terra Jonsyn. We grew up together, joined Academy together, and it felt like it had only been since achieving Level 9 in all my classes that I stopped seeing Matthias so frequently. At least Terra and I still spent time at each other's houses outside of Academy, but Matthias, I barely saw at all, except at social events. Lately, I'd depended on hearing from my mother's reports of the latest news from the neighborhood gossip grapevine--but now here he was again, looking every inch the eligible young man, training to become a competent tradesman like his father.

I recovered myself as I rounded the corner and approached the library door. 

Why am I suddenly beset by nerves? I asked myself. I have permission to be here. I'm not skulking about like some rebellious young--

"Callista!"

For the second time, the sound of my name interrupted my own thoughts, but this time, a slender hand landed on my shoulder.
I knew exactly who it was. Without turning around, I pushed the hand off.

“Let me guess,” I turned to face the owner of said hand. “You skipped Etiquette again?”

Terra Jonsyn, a spunky redhead with deep dimples, unruly hair and far too many freckles, rolled her sparkling blue eyes at me. “It’s so boring! I know how to be courteous and how to not make a fool of myself in social gatherings, why should it matter which fork I use to eat my entree with, or which corner of the napkin I use to wipe my mouth?”

I sighed and shook my head. There was plenty of inspiration for the nickname “Tearaway Terra” that she had earned for herself; she pursued life with reckless abandon, and it was that very recklessness that frequently got her into trouble.

"Well, be that as it may," I murmured as she jigged to the soft strains of music issuing from the Dance classroom, "I hope you don't get into too much trouble before the next class. Too much idle time can lead to some unintended consequences." Particularly for someone as curious and brazen as Terra! I thought to myself.

I turned away and handed my permission slip to the Senior Archivist in charge of the library.
When I glanced over my shoulder, Terra still stood beside me, a stunned expression on her face. "Callista!" she breathed. "How did you get permission to go to the library?"

I shrugged, wanting to make as light of the situation as possible, here in the hallway. "Special assignment for History class." I turned back to the doors as the Archivist swung them open for me, and Terra grabbed my wrist.

"Can I come with you?" she begged.

The two of us were friends, but most people, from watching us, felt that our personalities couldn't be more opposite. I was methodical and straightforward; she had far too much energy than was considered proper for a lady, and she tended to err on the scatterbrained side. I could be content with focusing on one single task for an extended period, while Terra required considerably more active involvement and thrived with rapid changes in pace. She tended to seek me out and follow me around whenever our paths crossed, but I could usually deter her by heading somewhere she didn't want to go, or get settled into some mundane task until she wandered off out of sheer boredom, leaving me to pursue my own agenda in peace.

Today, I could tell, was not going to be one of those days.

I shook my head and tried to pull away. "No, Terra--the permission slip was for myself only. They don't just let--"

"Please? I could help you!"

"I don't need help--"

"Are you going in or not?" The Archivist cut short our little tug-of-war, staring down his nose at me.
The more I argued with Terra, the less time I had for doing the research I needed. The aggravating girl had put me in a spot where I had no choice.

"All right, come on!" I said, and the two of us followed the Archivist together.

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Serial Saturday: "The Last Inkweaver" Part 1

Part 1

"Lessons In History"

A gust of wind caught the edges of my cloak, even as I pulled it closer around me on my way toward the large Academy building. The class bell tolled loudly over my head as I entered the foyer, and I picked up my pace through the hallways, to the History classroom. I joined the file of students similarly garbed in thick robes over their clothes. The last Waning of Greyfrost still kept a chill in the air, although not much snow had fallen this season.

I sank into my seat and pulled out the pencil and the bound book of parchment pages we used to take notes during all the lectures. Scholar Mikel stood behind the podium at the front, flanked by a chalkboard on one side, where an assistant created an outline of all his points, which we were expected to copy and memorize, and a large map of Gramble on the other. A royal crest in the eastern region marked where the capital, Gramble City, stood, and a scattering of other large cities beyond it, marked with simple turrets or stars. The Fforgan Mountain Range sliced through our portion of the continent like a billowing sash, from northwest to southeast, and all the region west of the mountains had were only a few turret "cities" and mostly simple houses denoting smaller villages--and at the extreme westernmost edge, separated from the other towns by a wide swath of empty space, was my hometown, Mirrorvale.

"Today, I will read from the Chronicles of Exploration," he said, prompting a flurry of rustling parchment as everyone turned to the appropriate pages in their note books. At The Academy, the instructors functioned under the truism, “Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it.”

Of course, it couldn’t possibly apply to any place as dull and predictable as Mirrorvale. Here, repetition was a way of life, as natural as the weather.

I focused on the map as Scholar Mikel droned on the same dreary passages about the colonization efforts of King Phillisto, who was responsible for turning Gramble from a single enclosed city into a power state comprised of many walled cities and covering most of Western Hemptor.

I had only managed to record a few lines of notes when, in the middle of his recitation, I blinked and my eyes saw something other than the classroom.

"Not again..." I whispered to myself as a second image usurped what was right in front of me.

It occurred as naturally as a thought, or a memory. One moment, I was watching the portly instructor with his wavy silver hair, round glasses, and brocade vest reading from the thick book on the lectern. In the next breath, I watched soldiers storm into houses and push people out of them. I saw whole villages cleaned out, the people loaded into large wagons, and taken away, leaving the buildings empty, hollow, and ready to collapse.

I took a deep breath and concentrated on listening for Scholar Mikel's voice.

"... The process of incorporating the small, scattered settlements throughout the vast western lands was not an easy one, but King Phillisto developed an effective method of convincing the indigenous population to move into the fortified cities."

I blinked in horror at the stream of text now covering half the chalkboard. How long had I been in the throes of a memory that wasn't even mine? I gripped my pencil and commenced scribbling as fast as I could to get all the notes copied down. If I failed the the exams due to insufficient or inaccurate information, I didn't want to imagine what that would do to my grades!

The whole time, the sounds from the image-scene haunted me--whinnying horses, crying children, and shouting soldiers echoed in my ears.

I finished the last line as the Scholar arrived at his next point. Industrial Factories Established, wrote the scribe.

"That method was the development of industrial factories which mass-produced everything Gramble's citizens needed, from foodstuffs, clothes, and furniture, to houses and even entire neighborhoods. If it could be made, the factories made it, and distributed it to specially-organized Factory Markets in every town."

Factories produced everything, I wrote. Mass-manufactured goods distributed via Markets. Quality control = safety and equality guaranteed.

An itch developed behind my eye. I blinked several times, and did my best to keep writing. Specialty products deemed unnecessary. Ability to reach more people served to bolster humanitarian efforts of the Crown.

I blinked again--and instead of my parchment-book on my desk, I saw a crowd of people streaming toward a Factory Market building. As they moved, I saw another structure beside the large building, a smaller booth. Under the colorful tent, a strange woman called out in an unintelligible voice, holding up her blankets and waving to a pewter tea set on display. Not one person stopped by her, and I saw a pair of soldiers march across the street and begin shouting at her, tearing the blanket and kicking over her tiny stand.

They were going to hurt her--I felt myself hurtling forward, heard my voice shouting at the soldiers as I reached out to get the crowd's attention to the injustice happening right in front of them--

"Callista?"

I returned to the present with a deep gasp, and a shudder that shook my whole body.

Scholar Mikel had stopped reading, and now he fixed his gaze on me, not saying anything. The entire lecture hall had fallen silent. Everyone looked at me.

Feeling returned to my limbs, and I realized that I had my hand stretched up in the air, like a confused student drowning in a sea of information.

Scholar Mikel uttered the words no student--least of all one who had been attending the Academy for as long as I had--wanted to hear.

"Do you have a question?"

Just the idea of it drove the power of speech from my mind. I had interrupted a Scholar in the middle of a lesson! What was I thinking? What could I do now, to save myself from this embarrassing situation?

Ask, the voice in my head urged.

I opened my mouth, frantically searching for a query that would demonstrate an appropriate level of comprehension.

"Do not be afraid, Callista," Scholar Mikel assured me as the class began to whisper to each other over my hesitation. "Inquisitive minds deserve answers, and it is by filling in the gaps in our own understanding that we increase our intelligence."

The question... "These natives you referred to," I began, finding my voice at last, "the ones indigenous to the land that is now the nation of Gramble--are these the ones known as Wordspinners?"

All whispers died. I felt the burning horror of the stares around me--but it wasn't as if I'd said a bad word! I hastened to flip back in my parchment-book, to an earlier lecture Scholar Mikel had given.

Meanwhile, the esteemed Scholar took advantage of the delay to deliver his explanation. "Some would call them 'word-spinners', yes--but that term isn't even in use any more, as Gramble's Golden Age of Reform brought such advancements in philosophy and intellectual fortitude in general, that the archaic beliefs in a nebulous absolute faded into oblivion, and the Wordspinners and their kind were lost to history long ago."

I found the page and traced my finger down the text as the students around me scribbled down this extra information.

"Here it is," I said, reading from the page. "In a previous lesson, sir, you said that the ones known as Wordspinners were merely a guild of crafters and artisans, and that the reason they declined was because of the advent of Factory Markets, and the fact that people were more inclined to purchase from the mass-produced goods in season and out of season, rather than hand-made merchandise and locally-grown produce that was only available on a limited basis."

A few other students flipped back in their books, as I had read this description verbatim from a Level 7 lesson. I looked up at the teacher--his face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes fixed on me with a heated stare.

"Something you should understand, Callista," Scholar Mikel spoke with a dangerous calm to his voice, "is that the Academy prides itself on accurate, necessary information. That means that the material is tailored to what a student at each level would need to know. At Level 5, the student need not even know that this primitive group of pagans were known as Wordspinners. I presume you are speaking based on your Level 7 notes--and at that level, students are expected to know that yes, Wordspinners existed, but here," he swept his arm to indicate the entire lecture hall. "At Level 9, you have been made aware of the fact that these were not just simple crafters and gardeners, but insubordinate rebels who objected to any outside influence for purely religious reasons." He closed the book and let his words hang over us.

The murmur rippled through the classroom, and could guess the topic of whispered conversation among desk neighbors. A heat rose in my cheeks as I felt their surreptitious stares, how the Scholar's gaze fixed on me, who dared call him out in the middle of a lesson, and try to confuse his own words. Was that really what I wanted to do? What more of an explanation did I need, than the one he gave?

The bell tolled high over our heads. Scholar Mikel closed the book on his lectern, and his assistants began wiping down the massive slate behind him. "This concludes today's lesson," he announced. "We will resume at the next Level 9 History period." He waved us all out of the room.

I gathered my materials and filed into line with the students around me, my mind full of dread as I replayed the whole class period in my mind, wondering what went wrong, and what else I could have said that would have brought a different outcome. The trouble was, there was only one other alternative that I could see.

"Callista." The sound of my name before I'd even reached the door of the lecture hall brought me and a few other students in my immediate vicinity to a halt. Scholar Mikel stood with his eyes trained directly on me. The others shuffled out of my way as I moved to stand on the floor before him. We might have been the same height--he wasn't a very tall man--but he still stood on the elevated dais at the front of the classroom, so he loomed head and shoulders over me, his disapproving frown weighing me down even further.

"Would you care to explain your behavior today, Callista?" he asked, as the last few students filed out of the room behind me. He folded his hands behind his back. "In all my years as Scholar, I have prided myself in ensuring against misinformation, and you--nine academic levels, nearly ten fourseasons, and not once have you spoken out like you did today. Why?"

I opened my mouth, willing some semblance of an idea to come forth. It seemed that words would just pour out of me sometimes, at inopportune moments, and yet now, when I very literally had the floor--

Nothing.

"I--"

Scholar Mikel pursed his lips and clicked his tongue. "Something you must learn, Callista, as you are set to graduate from your Academy studies, is the virtue of sufficient evidence. If you are going to challenge the accepted view of something, you must put in the research first, so that you have the proof you need to validate your point. Perhaps the evidence is there--or perhaps it is in the course of trying to prove your hypothesis that you find information to the contrary, and it is your view that must change, not the historical records."

He turned to the long table with all his teaching materials and began writing on a piece of parchment. Was he recommending that I repeat the level, to ensure that his version of these lessons really stuck this time? Was he writing the Headmaster to decline my graduation because of insubordination? Was it really all that bad that I had expressed a dissenting point of view?

I gulped, took a huge gasp, and blurted, "I'm sorry, Scholar!"

"Oh?" Scholar Mikel looked up, a smile on his face and the parchment in hand. "Never fear, Callista--it is not an apology I seek. Merely that next time, I would like you to be better informed." He handed me the parchment.

"Permission for: Callista Rubinsyn; Location: Library; Material: Korstan Senevere And The Exploration of Western Hemptor

I stared at the title. The Library was normally off-limits to students, without either accompaniment by a Tutor, or written permission from a Scholar. "What is this, sir?" I asked.

"A special assignment, just for you," said Scholar Mikel. "Korstan Senevere was one of the first explorers sent out under King Malacuse--King Phillisto's predecessor--who, it is said, lived among a community of Wordspinners out in the wilds of Western Hemptor, and chronicled what he could understand of their daily lives, their practices, and the events leading up to their near-extinction. Perhaps there, you will find the information you seek, which I am so ill-prepared to deliver to your satisfaction."

He had lost his disapproving frown, and now smiled at me, although it didn't make me feel any better.

"You are assigning me an extra reading assignment?" I asked, fidgeting with the paper in my hand.

"More than that," Scholar Mikel answered with a nod. "I want you to write a report on your findings concerning these ancient natives known as Wordspinners. See if you can find a way to reconcile the material in my lesson that you found so objectionable today. This slip gives you permission to requisition the book from the Library Archives, and by the end of my Level 3 lesson tomorrow, I expect to see you back with your report in hand, to present to me your findings." He rapped his knuckles on the table. "That will be all, Callista."

I exited the room and took a deep breath. Some of the lecture halls could get quite stagnant, even in Greyfrost, but out in the hallway, a profusion of high windows and the open doors leading to the outside kept the fresh air flowing.

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