Lawwright

Oliver illegally pens a law into the books

At last the others went away, taking their odd cawing gossip with them.

These gorgeous dark wooden shelves, laden with more books than I could read in a dozen lifetimes, the hints of vanilla and anise in the books, at last filled me. The other magicians in the arcane college did not hear the call of the library. Books sat untouched for decades, even generations.

And least of all, they admitted need to load one's thoughts onto paper. With a sigh of homecoming, I cracked open my blank book where I hid my thoughts, working the spell to cloak my writing against their hateful eyes.

I dabbed the sweat from my brow with the magic spiderweb on my fingertip, dripping it into an empty inkwell, then used the dry spiderweb to turn the page.

The quill jumped out of my hand and refilled itself in the empty air.

Magic?? My chin dropped in astonishment. "Who enchanted you my friend?"

The paper fizzed almost inaudibly as the magic ink touched, scrawling the answer, "Anonymous."

Yet it scratched something else in the air,, a word–a name?

I watched as it repeated, ever more insistent, the letters. An F, an h, an x.

"I do not understand?"

The quill dipped between my fingers and wrote. F, i, h, v, y, x.

"I never spelled- " my cheeks burned as I realized I had nearly said the quiet thing out loud. My elfin friend had never written her name for me. "Anonymous like that.”

It refused to write the name of its crafter–not uncommon, and anyhow I never expected it to understand my question. The quill returned to my hand, as my attention returned to my writing. "Problem: Queen Medusa's laws are far too harsh, embodying the ethic of The Dragon's justice, ranging from harsh to draconian."

Something came over me, an inspiration not entirely my own making, and this quill and I began to write.

After a time–the hour candle had dripped away at least five turns–I looked down to see what he had written.

A beautiful law, as kind as it was solomonic.

I tuned in, hearing the words as if Sigrun were speaking them:

Let it be written, and let it be known, that hereafter if any man wifman or weapman be caught stealing food for self or other, an it be less than a penny-loaf in value, that no punishment may be levied excepting that seven people with a purse containing at least seven pennies be first asked to pay for the stolen food. Each must face the accused, and none of them may know if they are first or seventh. Also let it be known that the punishment shall be no more than an hour on the stocks, and must not leave any mark upon the accused that is not left also upon the accuser. Further let no man say that if the price is paid, whether the mail silver or black, that the thief has not been duly punished, for this appeal process is itself known to be a punishment. If it were not so, the thief would have asked beforehand.

I saw the heaven-blue fire in Sigrun's eyes, the warm squint, the quirk in her lips–and echoed the sensation flowing from my shoulders to my toes.

If only someone would write this in Medusa's grand Book–where the ink would reflect in every law book throughout the land, and many foreign ports. "Someone must write this. In the Holy Book of the Law."

The quill leapt out of my trembling, pudgy hand to scribe the word, "Yes."

"No." A sense of dread dropped on my chest like a stack of books–like an iron ball chained to my feet. "No, no."

"Oliver. Yes."

The clean lines of the word cut into me with the finality of law, a pronouncement of a higher crown. Might these be the decree of Sigrun's High King? As Sigrun's friend, Old Man Wolf, had warned her–the outsiders, even the good ones, did not care much for the vicissitudes of the flesh. I took a line from an old forgotten manuscript, "Pass this cup from me."

***

The tower of the law had no door in the first seventeen floors–nor any stairs that a human could take, but only the faint outline of a ridge for a serpent to scale. It would take twenty odd knights of the temple to bring it to bear with the enchantments upon it, and an entire army to get another one.

I looked down at the small jar of spider dust and dabbed the dust on both fingers and my boots.

A chill wind filled the sacred space between me and Medusa's tower. I noted the ridges on the tower where the great dragon lucifer would climb, and the sparkling aura about it–golden, in the way that the Knights of the Temple could not invoke without laborious ablutions from the College of the Arcane. A week of penance and atonement with the greatest archmages before the lowliest knight could call down the holy wrath. Still more with the advancement of their skill in shining knighthood.

Not wanting to think on the stain on me and my colleagues—on every wizard and trueborn of the arcane college for helping the Temple pretend to holiness in this way, I turned my eyes from it and considered pocketing my glasses.

Nobody guarded the place from outside, though a few guards might live in the lower levels. And every great house and guildhall could view me as I crawled there.

Perhaps someone else could pen these words into law. A spider elf or canny second story man. Or perhaps fate would have mercy on me and throw me from the tower, sending me early on my journey to the White Gates.

I dared hope my cluelessness would not deter me from my audience with the High King, would not send me questing to hide in the Mazes Beyond or wander the lonely roads for the city of the lost souls.

No one to help me, to steady my hand. I looked around for any sign.

In the distance, as I adjusted my glasses–the unseasonable autumn-fire shade of Kiele's hair. Kiele, the wood-elf ghost whose conscience haunted my dear Sigrun's nemesis, stood–trying to speak with her eyes–as her captors gave her no voice. If loosed from that devil's pact, this goodly spirit would be wearing the green of spring not standing witness to the evils of Dust. I wished to hear her voice as surely as I am sure Dust hated it. How many times had I seen her glare at me for my clueless indifference before Sigrun noted I could see her only in my glasses–a spirit.

I remembered the day I met Sigrun. Eleven summers old, I strutted toward the library with my kebab laden with chicken, salted with spices and sauces, and valued enough to hire room and board for a family like her for a fortnight.

Thinking of it, I chuckle at the thought of how I had called it a 'kitchen axe.' In these seven years, Sigrun has taught me so much.

As I thought upon my actions, my chest fell.

If only I had known then, the three days she had travelled without a taste of food, I would never have let her–ah, but anyhow. Seeing only another dangerous waif and being rather well fed, I certainly threw her the chicken!

And yet, she would not let me leave without it. So be it–if I had known, she would have come into my chambers, gotten a bath and a fill of the best from our larder. I can't stop people being noble, but for those of us with more common tastes, I can help them get some mercy if not peace.

If Dust's patron evil-angel, Vivianca, had not trapped Kiele's wood elfin soul her hair would be green–reflecting the coming summer both of nature and the warming temperature of justice I hoped to write into law. For her–albeit in the name of Sigrun–and for all the helpless and hungry, I would offer myself. Within the hour I would find myself in a better place, whether by the spilling of my ink or my blood upon the stone it mattered little–as Sigrun's warrior tradition informed me. I matched her split wave and doffed my glasses.

As I touched the warm, gray stones the spider dust rose to cover the rest of my palm, and up onto my sleeve. I pulled myself up, my muscles tearing under the weight of my body. The warmth of the edifice, both moral and physical, could not calm the pain as my weight pulled at my skin, and I searched for the best way to leverage my ascent.

Tears dripped off my cheeks and, like a worm, I inched up the levels of justice's tower.

"You chose this," I whispered, breath ragged in my throat. "This that spares the suffering of others, who do not choose."

The words did not sweeten my affect–ah, mood– but the tension on that thread helped keep me raveled as I dragged my fattened body and the silk of my suit over the rough stones.

So in time–was it a turn, an hour, or an eternity?– I climbed over the threshold.

I lay nose down on the rough hewn floor, inhaling the bouquet of granite and sandalwood wash for a handful of breaths before unravelling the veil of exhaustion.

Before me the lectern of the law rose in the center of the gray floor, pointing up at the pole star in the ceiling.

The quill appeared in my hand. My fingertip burned as the ink fizzed at my skin and took a drop of blood before the spider's silk bandaged my wound.

I clawed my way up the spindly holy table surrounded by waves of stone representing the tower of justice–itself in a stone spire that symbolized a lighthouse in the middle of the city. A landmark in the smooth and featureless moral wasteland we faced.

I etched the words in the blood-tinged acid ink.

I felt my actions reverberating through history, knowing that I did none of this–honored to witness these actions.

As I admired the penmanship of what I assumed to be The High King Him or Herself, a rustling echoed in my ears behind me.

A great black serpent slithered in behind me and rose to the height of my eyes.

"I do not repent my actions, fell bringer of light! I shall have wings this day!"

But the serpent took the form of Medusa and my heart sank.

I would be cast in salt, a glass statue, a cautionary tale. No doubt my law would be struck away. I looked down at my feet and began to cry.

But she stepped gently toward me, arrayed in regal yellow silk, her hair of gold writhing like a holy hydra, and lifted my chin to face hers.

I could not escape, so I might as well present a good image. I closed my eyes and raised my chin, straightened my shoulders. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes—and looked into her smiling white-shining eyes.

"Those of sweet and golden heart are welcome in this space." She looked upon my work. "I approve, gentle lawwright. You are a credit to the city state of Balthispeare. Shame your kind are so few."

She looked out upon the city, then turned to me. "My magic does not meld place to place. And this blackened form would not fool the temple if I were seen to show mercy–I can't be seen to carry you free."

I straightened my suit. "I am prepared to die for my act."

"I can read your heart better than that, and fain would I–I would prefer to break you into a million Olivers, if like a dragon you would choose to survive it, and would not suffer a single one of your quality to breathe even one less breath. But it may frighten you…"

I pulled my glasses out and polished them in confusion.

"Have you heard of Jonah?"

A chapter I had not read. "I confess I skipped over the story."

She whispered the story to my heart.

"I would be undead?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Not at all. A false death, and a full restoration."

"I have no defense. You need not seduce me to my end."

She touched my shoulder. "May your end be long in coming, for every day you breathe improves this earth."

I nodded, and opened my arms and closed my eyes.

A giant belt wrapped around me and I felt myself taken in, swallowed.

The next thing I knew I heard tapping.

Sigrun pulled away black panels of eggshell from around me.

My brother stood across the room, a look of horror on his face.

Sigrun took my bedraggled body in her arms and hugged me. "I can't believe–I thought he was a myth."

"I wrote… I penned…" I leaned in to her. "Medusa said…"

Sigrun laid her hand on my heart. "Do I need to do the unbleeding?"

I took her hand. "Your touch is enough to stabilize what has fallen in me."

"It seems I am a master chirurgeon?"

The roguish healing art of freemen like Sigrun. Mending a body like a garment–strangely apt when you lift the veil. I strained to make my smile look gentlemanly and polite. I would take the blade to invite her touch and count myself lucky. "I am uninjured."

"So what were you saying?"

I ached to pull back the veil. To see the pride in her eyes "I must act less the wizard and more the magician."

She touched my knee.

I wished she meant that the other way.

"Your nighttime friends? Mack tells me… I am honored, even if I cannot be told."