Sylvara Moonwhisper's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Night settled over the glade. The elder unicorn slept on the stone floor, its shaggy coat dull, its rainbow mane faint as old dye. Sylvara sat across from Diaran with the sleeping beast between them. The herd watched from the far arches. She had promised to stand beside him all night. She meant to use the hours to learn who he was. "That book," she said. "Where did it come from?" Diaran set the worn journal on his knee. He loosened its leather tie. "A merchant. He sold things most people won't. He gave it to me before he died." "Gave it. Or you took it." He smiled, quick and thin. "Does it matter which?" "It matters." She nodded at the elder. "You want me to trust your instructions over my own blood. So yes. It matters." He opened the journal. Sylvara leaned close. The pages were covered in cramped writing she could not read. The letters slanted hard, like a fence. Halfway through the book, the hand changed. The neat lines broke apart. The words crawled and shook across the paper. "Who wrote that part?" she asked. Diaran's finger stopped on the shaking lines. His smile was gone. "The same man. After he woke something. His hand never came back steady." "And you can read it." "Enough of it." "Then read it to me," she said. "Out loud. The part before it goes wrong." He looked at her a long moment. Then he read. The sounds were harsh and foreign. Sylvara did not understand one word. She watched his face instead. He read smooth and sure, no stumble, no guess. He knew the tongue. That much was true. But she had no way to know if the words matched the page. He could speak any lie in a language she couldn't check. The shaking hand had written a warning she couldn't read. The steady hand had written the rite she was meant to trust. Both were locked behind letters only Diaran could open. "Stop," she said. He stopped. "I can't read a line of this. I only have your mouth. Your mouth has lied to me before." "I never lied," he said. "I just didn't answer." "It's the same here." She closed the journal under his hand. "The hair read your heart. It can't read a book. I won't wake the elder off a story I can't check." Diaran met her eyes. "Then we're stuck." "No." Sylvara stood. The elder breathed slow beneath her. "There's another on this mountain who dealt in old things. A sprite who keeps a frozen garden. If the merchant passed through here, she may know his name. Or know this hand." She looked down at him. "At first light, I find someone who can read your book without you. Then I'll know what the dead man truly wrote."