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“I was wondering when you would come,” the Scribe of the Stars said, not shifting from her hunched position over the telescope, her hand still writing meticulous notes in the book on the table beside her.
Night had settled deep around the tower, but within, these were the most active hours. While the rest of the world slumbered, the Scribe stood wide awake recording the messages of the stars. They were in full progression across the sky and waited for no one. It would be long hours before she could turn into her bed. Eugenides begrudgingly admitted that these quiet hours belonged as much to her as they did to him.
Through the dim light of a few candles, Eugenides could see a well-appointed tower room filled with brass instruments used to calculate the position of the stars and measure the seasons. The ones that were not supported by their own bases were cluttered on tables scattered throughout the room.
The most impressive features of the room though were what had brought the Scribe fame and power throughout the world – a large telescope rumored to have been cast by the gods themselves at the beginning of civilization and a glass roof spanning the entire width of the tower, giving the Scribe an unimpeded view of the night sky.
Silence settled in the tower, interrupted only by the scratch of her stylus on the page. The Scribe sighed.
“Eugenides,” she said. “I won’t play games with you.”
Eugenides had only been observing her for a few minutes before the Scribe had noted his presence. He had heard that the Scribe was an arrogant, power-hungry vessel of the gods who hid in her tower fortress. She rarely admitted guests, and even rarer still allowed them the benefit of learning the future she had read for them. Eugenides had meant to observe tonight to see if the Scribe was really as cruel as the rumors claimed and then decide how best to approach her. It appeared those plans were ruined now.
Silently, he crossed the tower to her. The sharp press of a knife blade against her throat finally pulled the Scribe away from her telescope.
“Your stars could not warn you of my arrival?” Eugenides growled in her ear, applying pressure to the blade.
“The starts only tell me what will happen, not when. Stars do not understand time the way you and I do,” the Scribe chided gently, remaining pliant and instinctively reaching up to grip his arm.
Eugenides stood perfectly still behind her, perfectly silent. The only indication of his presence was the arm resting heavily on her neck and the blade pressing into her throat.
The Scribe rapped on his hook lightly with her knuckle, the dull thud barely resonating through the quiet tower.
“This is not you, Eugenides. I have watched you in the stars and know your heart. And this—” quicker than Eugenides could follow, the Scribe gripped his forearm in both hands and twisted out of his hold, finishing to face him with his arm still in the vice of her hands, “is not you.”
Eugenides’ eyes narrowed. Years as a king had not lessened the legacy of being the Minister of War’s son, the Scribe noted as Eugenides maintained his fighter’s stance. Perhaps years on the throne had made him even more deadly as the world revealed its harshness. The Scribe had no doubt that Eugenides had the capability to kill her tonight if he wished. She also had no doubt that he had no intention to.
So, in a move that Eugenides judged as either brave or stupid, she turned her back on him and began winding her way to a set of double doors on the other side of the tower.
“Come, Eugenides,” she said over her shoulder, pushing open one of the huge oak doors. “We will have the conversation you desire.”
Eugenides stood immobile for a moment more. This was not how the evening was meant to go. It had been a long time since anyone had been able to surprise him, longer still that anyone had detected him spying. Tonight was meant for observation only, and Eugenides found his normally sure goatfeet slipping out from under him, a feeling increasingly familiar where the gods were involved.
Trying not to look as cowed as he felt, Eugenides followed the Scribe. The room he observed stood in contrast to the one they had just left. While that was a true workroom filled with the equipment and impersonal air of a professional, this room resembled a homely library. With the exception of the large window directly opposite, heavy tomes matching the one the Scribe had been writing in earlier lined the walls floor to ceiling. Thick red carpet covered the floor in an attempt to keep out the cold since there was no hearth. As a previous resident of a library, Eugenides immediately recognized that this was in protection of the books. Even though this room looked nothing like his own, Eugenides felt a sudden pang of longing for his Eddesian quarters abandoned so long ago.
Seemingly unperturbed that she had an armed intruder at her back, the Scribe ran her hand along the tome’s spines, searching.
“Sit down, Eugenides,” she ordered. “There is a blanket over the back of the chair to keep you warm.”
His anger at her words was palpable.
“Oh, Eugenides,” the Scribe said, “I’m not trying to press advantage. I know your health is not good and the tower gets cold at night.”
Indeed, her own robe was a thick red wool that reached the floor. Eugenides on the other hand wore a thin black tunic and leggings designed for ease of movement, not warmth.
Refusing to show weakness, Eugenides remained leaning against the doorframe, a painter’s apprentice with a deadly edge.
The Scribe pulled two heavy tomes off the shelf and brought them over to the chairs. Shock ran through Eugenides as he noted that she moved as silently as he. In the stillness of the tower, even the smallest sound carried, but the only sound that reached Eugenides was the creak of the chair as she settled into it. He had not even heard the sweep of her robe on the floor. As a man who had spent years of his childhood perfecting his ability to move silently, Eugenides wondered why the Scribe had dedicated time to mastering this skill.
Setting the books on a table beside the chair, the Scribe turned to stare at Eugenides who had not moved from his post.
“I do not play games,” she said again. “Sit or leave, those are your only options.”
Eugenides continued lounging like he did not have a care in the world. It was an act he played well, but one that could not succeed against a woman who had seen his entire life laid out in the stars.
The moment stretched longer as the two started into each other’s eyes, Eugenides testing his opponent’s will and finding himself met with an iron wall. Finally, the young king blinked in concession and moved to sit with the Scribe.
“I left the nicer chair for you,” the Scribe said with a slight smile. With a benevolent nod of her head, she continued, “Ask your questions.”
Eugenides took a deep breath. He had been planning this visit for a while, but now that his confrontation with the Scribe had arrived earlier than anticipated, he found himself unprepared.
Unprepared and scared, he conceded. What if he did not like the answers the Scribe provided? Perhaps not knowing the path the gods had chosen for him was the safer option. He doubted that he would ever be able to truly run from their omnipotence.
“I am King,” he began, then hesitated, unsure how to continue.
“You are King,” the Scribe agreed, “and you hate it. But I cannot answer what you do not ask. It is the decree of the gods.”
Eugenides licked his lips. “Will I be a good king?”
“Such a subjective question,” the Scribe said lightly, then turned grave and spoke as if she recited from the tomes that lay beside her. “Yes, you will continue to be an even greater king. Your citizens’ love for you will multiply with each passing year. Your kingdom will grow larger still and face many trials. But you will be able to keep your people, all of your people, safe. And although you will continue to grow into the role of king, you will never want the title. You will never not hate what you have become. There is no escaping the will of the gods and their noose will continue to tighten.”
Eugenides’ face had grown stormy as the Scribe spoke, but he continued, “And what of an heir?”
“You will have an heir – many in fact – but not until you have played to the end of the gods’ agenda. It is a long and dark path ahead, and there will be no rest for you or Irene—”
“Do not call her that,” Eugenides cut in. “She is Her Majesty the Queen of Attolia to you.”
“No, Eugenides. I am not beholden to the laws of kings and men. I recognize no sovereign beyond the stars and the gods. And you will not presume to give me orders in my own home. You may be king of three countries, but the only power you hold here is that which I choose to give you.”
Eugenides opening his mouth to protest, his skin growing dark with the effects of his rage. The Scribe spoke before he could, “This conversation occurs by my will alone, and you will behave if you want the answers you seek.”
Staring into the Scribe’s face, Eugenides suddenly felt the presence of Hephestia herself. His stomach dropped and the blood drained from his face. How could he have forgotten that the Scribe of the Stars was chosen by the gods? He was sharply reminded that the most terrifying part of this night was not the answers he might find, but instead the woman sitting in front of him. His heart pounded in his chest.
Then, the moment passed and the Scribe lost her regal air. Eugenides found himself in the presence of a woman once again.
The Scribe sighed, collapsing into herself. For the first time, Eugenides realized how young she truly was. She was barely older than himself and, as he heard from Ornon every day, he was still too young to be a king.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Eugenides. I had always thought we could be friends. I have followed you through the stars for years and have seen how much you hate what the gods have chosen for you. Do you want to know a secret? I hate what they have chosen for me too. But you cannot refuse the gift of a god.” The Scribe laughed wryly. “So I spend my life trapped in this tower building the reputation of a feral monster who covets her power. I would give it up, I would give it all up, in a heartbeat if it meant I could just live a normal life.”
Eugenides started at her, unsure how to react. He felt a pang of longing for this poor trapped woman; he knew what it was to be held hostage by the gods. Still, he could not be sure that this was not a ploy to trick him into lowering his defenses. He could not discount the stories of the Scribe’s nature so easily.
The Scribe hunched smaller, pulling her legs up to her chest and refusing to look at Eugenides. “I tried to run away once.”
Eugenides could not hold back his sound of surprise at this admission. Run from the gods? Impossible.
The Scribe chanced a glance at his face before continuing. “I tried to run away once. I made it a day and half a night away before the pain became too great. I do not know if it was caused by a permanent curse attached to the tower or came from direct involvement of the gods. The last thing I remember was writhing in pain in the middle of the desert before passing out. I woke up in my bed feeling as if I had broken every bone in my body. Months passed before I could walk without pain.”
Eugenides flinched internally. He knew the power of the gods, but he often forgot how merciless they were.
“I had thought you were one of the few people in the world that would understand what it was like to be trapped under the thumb of the gods,” she continued, finally looking up at Eugenides.
When he did not respond, she uncurled from the chair and stood, regaining her professional air. “Well, do you have any more questions?”
Eugenides said nothing. The Scribe picked up the tomes on the table beside her and started walking towards their shelf.
“Wait,” Eugenides said. The Scribe paused with her back to him, but Eugenides did not know how to continue. He understood bowing to the will of the gods; he understood how it felt to hate your destiny. They were kindred spirits, the Scribe and he. But what comfort could he give a woman trapped in a tower half a world away? He was a king of three countries, he did not have time for friends or happiness. So instead, he stood.
“Thank you for your time,” he said, and left.