Chapter Nine Simran
Chapter Nine
Simran
The dragon is a royal symbol, and a symbol of the Isle. A beast to be slain, an ancient strength to be quelled by the bravery of men.
It is a symbol of the Crown. When you see no great wingèd beast flying over London, only clear and starry skies, hold your hand to your heart, and thank the Queen for taming all dark beasts to her luminous will.
Source: Essays on Our Glorious Isle by Samuel Tattersall
Archivist’s Ruling: Preserve. Publication permitted. No further action required.
The knight had entirely abandoned her. She could no longer see the knight through the throng of dancing people, circling each other before the Queen’s banqueting table. She craned her head as the two ladies-in-waiting led her away, but the knight was gone.
Fine. Simran didn’t need her. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even allies. It was important to remind herself of that.
She’d never seen people dance so… mournfully.
She’d danced plenty—outside ale-houses and inside molly-houses, to the thump of drums and guitars, or belted ribald songs.
But she hadn’t liked the pavane. She’d felt clumsy, exposed in front of an audience, reliant on the knight’s gentle instruction and her guiding hands.
Hot, steady hands. Her stomach somersaulted, remembering them on her. She hated herself for that. Her body was an evil traitor.
A lady-in-waiting bid her with a gesture to stand by the wall. Simran wondered if those women had faces at all beneath those masks, or blank ovals of skin.
Although many nobles walked by her and looked at her, none stopped to talk. She didn’t want to talk to them, mind—but it wasn’t pleasant to be an ornament on display either. She gritted her teeth and resolutely did not smile.
Two figures broke from the crowd and wended toward her. They wore neat doublets and swords at their waists, their clothes not as fine as the lords around them—marked only with a little embellishment at the ruffed collars and the darted sleeves.
They bowed.
“I am Sir Matthias, and this is Sir Edmund,” the first man said, gesturing at his companion.
His eyes were gentle, his hair deep red, and his beard neatly trimmed, his voice distinctly familiar.
These were the knights she’d stolen the limni ink from.
“We are members of the Queen’s knightly order, alongside Lavinia.
Which you likely know.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again formally, lady witch. ”
She was silent. The hand on her left arm tightened in warning.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you again too,” she said, voice flat, unsmiling.
It wasn’t a fucking pleasure. “But I suppose we won’t do so again, since your friend will soon kill me.
Have you tried the wine? No one will let me have any, because they’re afraid I’ll throw it on someone or break a glass into a makeshift weapon, I suppose.
” She tapped her foot thoughtfully. “Or no. Maybe they’re more worried that I’ll cut myself and use my blood to curse someone.
Who knows! Let me know if the wine is any good, regardless. ”
They stared at her, open-mouthed.
“Excuse me.” The archivist—Meera—was behind the two knights, hands clasped in front of her. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve been tasked by Archivist Roland to take the witch away. He requires her.”
She looked drab, in her archivist robes, against all the fluttering pomp around her. Without her prism lens on her eye she seemed… tired. Her mouth, painted plum, was pursed.
The ladies-in-waiting shared a look over Simran’s head, then released her.
The archivist left the room. Simran trailed after her, shocked at how light she felt without figures at her shoulders.
They entered narrow, claustrophobic corridors. She was led to the left, to a quiet chamber, muffled from the noise of the lutes and conversation in the banquet. The room was lined with dark mahogany shelves crammed with books. Low lamps lit the space.
The Queen’s wyvern lay across the room, somnolent as it always was. Simran paused at the door, wary of moving closer.
“Do not be disturbed by it,” said the archivist. “The creature is well controlled.”
Fine, then. Simran stepped farther into the room, skimming the shelves with her eyes. The writing on those bare spines was faded gold, barely legible, but Simran grasped words here and there: Gloriana, Merrie England. Her fingers itched to pull at one of those books, but she resisted.
“This is not the main Palace library,” the archivist said helpfully, as Simran turned in a circle, taking the room in.
“But it is close to the banqueting hall, which serves our need to speak privately—and, ah, interestingly, this library is concerned only with ancient texts focused on the Queen herself. I gather she likes to keep them close. The original editions are in the archives, of course.”
“It doesn’t look like your boss is here,” observed Simran.
“I hoped you and I could talk alone. Archivist Roland asked me to do so.” The archivist’s smile was thin, polite, and strained. “He thought we might have more in common than you and, ah, other archivists.”
“Your name’s Meera?”
“Archivist Sharma is my formal title,” she said. “I prefer it over my name when I am in my professional capacity, but with you—Meera is fine.”
“Meera,” Simran repeated. “Well, Meera, let’s talk. How did you come here to the Isle? Where were you born—Elsewhere, or here? Elsewhere’s obviously in your name and your face.”
There was a pause. “I was born Elsewhere,” she said, with audible reluctance. “But I do not remember it. I was lucky enough to come to the Isle as a small child. I could ask you the same, but I know the answer, of course.”
“Do you?”
“You’re an incarnate. Of course there’s Isle blood in you,” said Meera. She said it as if it were mere fact.
Simran said nothing. She’d been told all her life on the Isle that incarnates were Isle-born and Isle-blooded.
She wasn’t going to tell the archivists—or anyone—the truth if she could avoid it.
If she hadn’t lived through the impossible, awful magic of Isadora on the ship’s deck, the silver sea roiling beneath them, she wouldn’t have believed it herself.
And frankly, she wasn’t going to bring more danger to her parents’ door.
“Obviously,” Simran said.
“It is hard to be an outsider,” said Meera, tracing the edges of the books, removing a fine lace of dust from their surface; she lifted one book and moved it, as if she could not help but reorganize.
“But you need not be. Look at me, witch. I was a scholarship apprentice—a rare archivist drawn from Elsewhere blood. I worked hard. I proved myself. My journey hasn’t been easy.
Still, I’m proud of myself and glad for what the Isle has given me. ”
“How lovely to hear,” Simran said dryly. “Why tell me this now?”
“You weren’t willing to speak to me on our journey to London.”
“Your boss told you to,” Simran surmised. “Do you value his opinion so highly that you’re really willing to spill your guts to me? Do you have any sad childhood stories you think might win me over too?”
The archivist gave her a pitying look.
“I am trying to help you,” said Meera. “I know it’s hard to believe.
But your position as an incarnate is clearly…
difficult. The Queen has her own concerns and her own fears.
Parliament desires to maintain peace and order—and public happiness.
But we archivists value the tales above all else, and their survival.
We value you. And we know you need our guidance.
You’re not exactly as you should be. You’re—aberrant, Simran.
I’ll be frank—you’re not pure Isle blood, as you should be.
But we can help you to behave as you should.
Without us, you could break your tale and doom more of the Isle.
But with us the Isle will be safe.” Her eyes were earnest. “I promise.”
Simran frowned.
“Aberrant,” she repeated. “And what does that make you? Should you be an archivist, with your Elsewhere blood?” She grabbed a book from the shelf, riffling through it idly, awkwardly.
The pages were surprisingly crisp. “The Isle isn’t a good place for our kind, is it?
We’re everywhere, and only a few of us get to have the kind of power that gets you into a place like this.
I don’t even know why the Isle takes us, do you? ”
“Nonsense,” Meera said, ignoring her question. “We’re lucky to be here, witch. We should be grateful. If you stand by the values of the Isle, live by its values, you can find hope and glory here that you would never find Elsewhere.” She spoke with absolute conviction.
Meera took a step closer to Simran.
“But never mind that. Listen to me,” said Meera. “I’m afraid I can’t keep you here for long. So I must tell you this now, a secret held by the archivists and the Queen alone. Someone is killing incarnates, and the Isle is dying. We believe an eighth of the land is gone.”
Simran stared at her in shock. Meera nodded gravely.
“You won’t know the places that are forgotten,” Meera continued.
“The villages and towns, the people. But we archivists keep the maps and protect the stories. We watch our maps erode, words fading to nothing. We see tales die as our maps wither and change. The Isle is scarred and broken, and all of us must work to save it. You must be good, and you must learn and you must serve, because you’re more important than you have been in a thousand lifetimes. ”
Simran’s thoughts were racing. They settled, arrow-swift, on a grim reality.
The archivists were desperate, and they were never going to let her leave.
But Hari needed her. And nothing mattered more than that.
Simran started riffling through pages again, idly.
“Why talk to me,” she said after a beat. “Why not talk to my knight?”