Spinner’s Sickness

Remix of photos by Hartmut Tobies and Janko Ferlič

Spinner’s Sickness

by Michael Piel

Morning’s sounds reached Serai, the shush of the scythes, the hum of the looms, and the chanting of the brothers up the hill, but beyond it, growing steadily louder, came the rush of the approaching whirligig. Her heartbeat quickened.

A Princess was coming.

“Quickly, Serai!” Father Speaker called. “Only children daydream.”

“Yes, Father.” She leapt the old stone steps two at a time. She should have bathed before she left, washed her robes, but she’d barely gotten ready as it was.

Why hadn’t the Princess told anyone she was coming?

“She’ll seem frightening,” Father Speaker said, ducking off the path. “Unlike you, she’s a full-blooded Selachii, which means she takes part in certain rituals and Blood Feasts.”

The factory appeared in flashes to her right, and dark figures lurched past its windows. Blood Feasts? Were they called that because of blood pudding, or did the Princess eat raw flesh?

“Ignore all that,” he said. “You must behave as you would around any other guest.”

They burst into a field of foolstalk. Rows of the plant whipped by, their hoary tassels splitting the sun like spear tips. Serai struggled to keep up.

Father Technician waved from the path ahead. “From the south! Only one ship!”

Father Speaker hitched up his robes. “Quickly, Serai! We mustn’t be late!”

She glanced at Father Technician as she passed. His rheumy eyes darkened, and his hand tightened on his cane.

“This could be good,” Father Speaker panted, “considering everything at the other monasteries, this could be very good for us.”

Serai flinched. Father Technician had used the cane on a novice last week. They’d deserved it, whispering about blind eyes and drooling mouths. But it was Father Speaker’s kindness, Serai suspected, that protected her from similar treatment on a regular basis.

But the foolstalk vanished, and the Princess’s whirligig was above her, a thundering blur of blades and propellers. The grass rippled, and the foolstalk along the whirlipad’s edges thrashed. Dirt spun about the clearing.

“Stand up straight!” Father Speaker shouted.

“Yes, Father.”

“Look her in the eyes.”

“I will.”

“And if she asks who we are, what will you say?”

The Princess knew who they were. Why else would she visit? Then, Serai realized: it was the first time Father Speaker had said we that he’d meant her, too. Her chest swelled. “We are the archivists.”

“And what do we do?”

“We protect the history of Humankind.”

The whirligig landed. Its beetle-like carapace shifted, and the hum of the engine cut. Serai saw her reflection in its side. Would the Princess be frightening, deformities twisting her body like the rectory boys whispered, or would she look like Serai?

A door opened below one of the wings, and a figure stepped into the light.

Serai gasped.

Long shimmering robes hung from the Princess’s shoulders and arms, and it was as if she floated, not walked, down the narrow steps to the ground below. Serai’s own robes stuck to her skin.

“Princess Umbra,” said Father Speaker, bowing low. “It is a great honor.”

Serai bowed, too.

The Princess had the high cheekbones of the Selachii, and her eyes were as black as a shark’s, but besides that, she did not appear so alien. Nobler, yes. Jewels gleamed along fingers and braids. But her teeth weren’t filed, and horns didn’t grow from her cheeks. Serai touched her own face.

She looked nothing like the Princess, whatever blood they shared.

Two attendants emerged from the ship.

“Your things?” asked Father Speaker, motioning to their bags.

The Princess nodded. She was beautiful.

“They will be brought to the monastery directly. The idea of material objects is foreign to us. Everything we possess belongs to the people, our histories included.”

The Princess smiled. “Of course.”

“And your yeomen? Or ladies-in-waiting?”

“I have neither.” She turned to Serai. “But what of this one? She does not appear to be a brother.” Something flickered across her eyes.

This rumor, at least, was true. Serai trembled. Nictitating membranes—translucent eyelids so a predator never lost sight of their prey. How Serai wished for them.

“Not yet,” Father Speaker said, squeezing her shoulder. “This is Serai, our first female novice in 50 years. Not that it matters. Tomorrow morning, she will complete her Trials, read from her first spinner, and if all goes well, receive her shunt.” He tapped the metal socket behind his ear. “From there, the real training begins.”

Princess Umbra crouched, and her dark gaze wound around Serai. She held it best she could, like Father Speaker instructed.

“But come,” he said. “We have much to show you.”

A second wonder crossed the Princess’s face. If Serai hadn’t been watching, she would’ve missed it. Father Speaker did. A look of hatred—worse than anything the monks showed her. But what reason did the Princess have to hate Father Speaker? She’d never met him before today.

The look disappeared, and the Princess was standing, smiling and straightening her robes in the still-flickering light through the whirligig’s slowing propellers.

“Ready?” Father Speaker asked.

Serai’s eyes burned with shame.

Monks don’t daydream. Monks carry out their duty. And hers right now was to lead the Princess on a tour through the grounds. Father Speaker loved to show her off, which both delighted and humiliated her. “Follow me, please, Princess. We have much to show you.”

The foolstalk shivered and fell.

“Long ago,” said Serai, “the monks discovered the delta’s rich soil was the perfect place to grow the plants necessary for their archives.” A hundred or so laborers moved steadily through the field, swinging reaper blades back and forth. “Much is made from the foolstalks. Clothing, tapestries, robes, and most important of all, the foolscap upon which the histories are written.”

The Princess walked along the berm. Below, sunlight shimmered in the murky water from which the plants grew.

“Careful, Princess,” said Father Speaker. “The work can be messy.”

Her gaze remained on the distant sea.

Serai led them to the factory next. Forty or so great looms shuddered and roared, and the weavers, old women discernible from wood and reed only by their lurching forms and scuttling fingers, bent over their thread. The ceiling was low, and cottony flecks floated on the air. “This is where the foolstalk is woven into sheets,” Serai explained. “From here it’s funneled upwards to the second floor, which we’ll see in a moment.” She led the Princess past a row of looms. “Careful, a garment caught in the machines can be quite dangerous.”

The Princess bent close to a machine. She nodded.

The hum grew quieter upstairs. “This is where the foolscap is cut into ribands,” said Serai, half-stepping into the room.

Children handled enormous, hinged knives fixed to long tables. The sheets of foolscap ran up from the floor, and the children cut them into strips. These ran through a series of gears, then into holes to the third floor above. Through a murky window, Serai could see the monastery’s white walls on the hill above. “This is where I would’ve been if I hadn’t passed my earlier Trials.”

The Princess nodded but said nothing.

Had she forgotten the difficulties of her old life? Why had she come, unannounced and unprompted, if she didn’t have anything to say?

Serai led them to the third floor. “And finally, this is where the foolscap is spun onto hubs.”

Hundreds of metal dowels ran from floor to ceiling, each one spinning upon unseen wheels. Old men used tongs to guide the long, narrow strips of felted paper from the previous floor onto the spools. Each one expanded until it was nearly two feet in diameter. Then, the men paused the dowel with a foot pedal, detached the now-filled spool, and fit it into a cylindrical case.

Serai led them out. “From here, we take them to the monastery.”

“Each is blank?” It was the first she’d spoken since her arrival.

Serai nodded. “Yes. A spinner can only be written within the monastery walls.”

“And when will you write your first spinner?”

The shark gaze fell upon her, and the words turned belly-up in her mind.

Luckily, Father Speaker spoke for her. “Oh, the brothers in training do not write spinners until their fortieth year. Serai has much to learn before then.”

From the factory, they made their way back up the hill. Serai loved this walk. She could see the whole valley below her: the whirlipad, the fields, the factory, and the village beside it, particularly as the sun set. The breeze cooled her, bringing with it the smell of the sea, and the windows of the monastery shimmered above them like a giant lantern.

“It is very beautiful,” said the Princess.

“Thank you,” said Father Speaker. Two laborers approached from the monastery above. “Though, I apologize for the walk. The road is old and was not built to sustain larger vehicles.”

She shook her head. “I rather enjoy it.”

Serai glanced at The Princess. Her legs were strong and lean, as were her arms, visible through eyelets in her robes, and although her face was blank, her cheeks shone brightly in the setting sun. Sweat glistened on her brow.

The laborers passed, and one spoke, barely above a whisper, “Otherblood slag.”

It felt like a slap, one that left Serai’s ears ringing. If Father Speaker heard, he made no sign, not that he ever did. The Princess was several paces ahead, eager to see the monastery and out of ear shot. Serai straightened and stuck out her chin. Usually, it was trollop, guttersnipe, whore. She’d have to look up slag.

Pain rose around her fingernail. She pressed the nail deeper into her arm. The skin broke, and warm, soothing blood trickled down her wrist.

She followed Father Speaker towards the monastery in a daze, through the high oak doors and into the cool halls. “And here are your quarters,” he said to the Princess, stopping near the arboretum at the back. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a little rest after the day’s events. Dinner won’t be for another hour.”

Serai’s mind filled with scrolls and maps. She would gather them about her like armor.

“I’d like to see the spinners first,” the Princess said.

Father Speak hesitated. “The spinners? Now?”

“There’s been so much anticipation built throughout the day that I don’t think I could focus on another thing until I saw one in action.”

The old monk forced a smile. “Of course. Give me a moment, then I’ll retrieve you. Perhaps we’ll take one more quick tour before we eat?”

The Princess nodded. “Splendid.”

Serai turned to follow him out. Poor Father Speaker. It’d been years since someone with as much influence as the Princess had come to the monastery. A hand closed on her arm.

“I’d love it if you stayed, Serai,” said the Princess. “I do hate unpacking alone.”

Panic scraped her insides. There was the Vlaske watershed to memorize, Senchar’s Rebellion, and the migration patterns of the phoenix, a bird so large it landed only three or four times in its life. But Father Speaker’s face stoned. He nodded, then retreated down the hall.

Serai entered the guest quarters. Certainly, it was one of the most beautiful rooms in the monastery. The ceilings were high and arched, as were the windows, and there was a balcony looking onto the western hills framed on either side by kumquat trees.

Princess Umbra opened a trunk. “Don’t stand there. Come, sit.”

Her sudden warmth off-balanced Serai. She sat on the bed, terribly aware that after the long walk in the sun, she must smell like a marsh rat.

“Go on.”

Serai ran her fingers along the neatly folded clothes. Was she nervous because of Umbra’s royal position, or her ancestry? A rectory boy had said a full-blooded Selachii could commit extreme acts of violence without remorse. A necklace hung around the Princess’s neck. Serai hadn’t noticed it before. “What’s that?”

“This? It’s charcoal.”

Serai frowned. “Charcoal?”

The Princess unfastened it. “It’s what our people wrote histories with before spinners. I’ve carried it for most of my life.”

Our people? The small rock left smudges on Serai’s palm. “You mean monks?”

Umbra leaned forward, and the smell of pepper and jasmine filled Serai’s nose. “No, Serai. I mean our people.”

Serai waited for more, but the Princess returned the necklace to her neck, her face as inscrutable as it had been that morning.

“What’s in that?” Serai asked, pointing to a valise.

The Princess’s membranes flicked across her eyes. “People are usually too afraid to ask me so many questions. Are you not afraid?”

She had been that morning. And before. But now, alone with the Princess, her presence specifically requested, no. It was thrilling, in fact. She shook her head.

“You see more than you say, Serai. It’s a rare trait for a monk.” She touched the valise. “This one contains something very special. A gift.”

“Can I see?”

The Princess shook her head. “I’m afraid not. It’s only for senior brothers.”

Serai nodded. She was used to being told such things.

The Princess lifted clothes from her trunk and placed them into the wardrobe. “Are you worried for your Trials?”

“Some. I’ve been studying since I was five.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Twelve.”

“And what of the shunt?” The Princess tapped the place behind her ear. “I’m not sure I’d like something like that in my head.”

A cricket jumped in Serai’s stomach. “I’ve heard there’s a moment of pain, but you get used to it.”

The Princess closed a drawer. “Seems to defeat the monks’ purpose of keeping knowledge organic.”

“The shunt doesn’t replace the brain; it only modifies it. It’s what allows us to remember everything we do.”

“Then I take it you aren’t afraid of spinner’s sickness?”

Serai glanced at the door. It’s what Father Technician had beaten the novice for. “Spinner’s sickness isn’t real,” she said quickly. “It’s a nasty rumor invented by the laypeople to discredit the monks. No one here has ever gone mad.”

“And what of the lesser monasteries?”

There’d been rumors, but Serai shook her head.

The Princess stood in the door to the balcony. The sun set behind her, and laughter drifted up from the village below. “Do they hurt?” She turned to face Serai.

“The shunts? Like I said—”

“No.” She nodded.

The fingernail-shaped cut on Serai’s arm glowed in the setting sun, and around it, all the similarly shaped scars, like a sky of crescent moons on the small, pale wrist. Shame shot through Serai, and she yanked down her sleeve. “No, I—it isn’t—”

The Princess raised a hand. “I know what it’s like, you know. To be stuck between world’s, accepted by neither but detested by both.”

A sudden, staccato knock interrupted them.

Father Speaker stood in the entrance. “Greetings, Princess! Are you ready? It seems you came at a perfect time: a spinner is about to be destroyed.”

“Excellent. And the girl,” said Princess Umbra. “I’d like her to come, too.”

Serai clutched her robe’s cuff. She wanted to hit the Princess. Scratch her face and spoil her beauty. Then, she wanted to make Father Speaker apologize for every time the laborers or monks had insulted her, and he’d pretended not to hear.

Father Speaker lifted an eyebrow. “Novices aren’t usually allowed in the archives.”

“And Princesses don’t usually visit.”

Father Speaker hesitated, then turned to Serai. “What do you think, Serai? Would you like to see?”

She studied the kind face. Seven years, and he’d never said anything, never noticed the moons. Her jaw relaxed, and a hollowness seeped through her. “Alright.”

She followed him down the hall with the Princess beside her. The candelabras were lit, and a pleasant evening breeze blew through the windows. Father Speaker led them off the south wing, down a series of stone steps, then into a room with a low ceiling. “Now, whatever you do, you must not speak,” he said. “It’s important that the senior brother not lose his concentration. Do you have any questions, Princess?”

Princess Umbra shook her head.

“And Serai, we must pretend like tomorrow is your first time. Understood?”

She nodded. The hollowness filled her head now.

“Hundreds of years ago,” explained Father Speaker, “anyone with a link to the nexus could write whatever nonsense they wanted and claim it to be true. No more. Truth can only be created in this chamber now.”

He opened the door.

The room was small, and Serai heard the whine of the spinner before she entered. One of the senior brothers sat in the center on a thin cushion.

It was difficult at first to tell that the strip of paper was moving, though it wavered slightly near the apertures in either wall. The brother’s eyes seemed strangely animated. They never left the spot in space directly in front of him. Serai couldn’t see the individual words on the foolscap strip—the feed and take-up spinners moving it so quickly through the room it could cut flesh—but the brother could. His eyelids fluttered as his shunt strobed madly with light.

Father Speaker guided them out. “Now, once the spinner is read, it will be destroyed. It can exist only in that senior brother’s mind until the ten-year cycle has passed. Anyone who desires to know the history contained in his spinner cannot seek it in a dusty library, or on a forgotten shelf in the datasphere, but will have to find that specific senior brother, sit down with him in some shady corner of the premises, and hear the tales from his own mouth. In this way, the monastery shifts knowledge from a selfish, lonely pursuit, to one between people—a communion of minds.”

The Princess pointed. “That spinner will be destroyed once it is read?”

Father Speaker nodded. “And in ten years, the brother will rewrite it, at which point it will be entered into another brother’s mind. This is how we keep the history from lapsing into obsolescence. I think you’ll agree, Princess, that there is no greater adage than, Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.”

“And that spinner,” she said, “what history did it contain?”

Father Speaker slid open the furnace door. “The Battle of Marlonbras, in the Third Year of Rebirth. A regrettable time—and an antiquated name. But as I’ve taught Serai, it is our duty to learn all of planet Hearth’s history, not just the parts we’re proud of.”

“A valuable lesson.”

Father Speaker led them into the main hall.

“And what of the spinner’s sickness?” she asked. “Has it reached this monastery yet?”

Serai stiffened. Did the Princess want to get them in trouble? But the old monk chuckled. “Sensational rumors, Princess. I can promise you that there is no such thing as spinner’s sickness, spinner’s blindness, or spinner’s dementia.” He tapped his shunt. “These make sure of that.”

Dinner was delicious. Rarely were novices allowed in the hall with the senior brothers, and the flavors and smells filled Serai with warmth.

She would become a monk. If what the Princess had said was true, it didn’t change that fact. Life was complicated, and knowledge made it clearer. The realization soothed her. She reached for her glass, mind whirling with tomorrow’s Trials, when the Princess caught her wrist.

“Little girls shouldn’t drink wine,” she whispered.

Serai tried to pull back her arm, but the Princess’s grip was strong. Serai’s face reddened.

“At least, not ones with tests in the morning,” she added, and let go.

Anger boiled in Serai. Who did the Princess think she was? She had no idea how hard life was here for Serai. Which was when Father Librarian said, “Do you still find time to visit the orphanages?” and the atmosphere in the hall changed.

Serai knew the story—everyone did. The Princess had been a beggar in the capital, no more than a foreign orphan, yet she’d caught the eye of one of the planet’s most powerful families, a philanthropic Duke who walked the orphanage’s grounds. He found odd jobs for her around his estate, which was how his son, the Prince, fell in love with her. Rumors were, she’d beguiled him with unnatural, unlawful magic, but no one knew the truth.

Princess Umbra smiled. “No. Though I’m told they’re much improved. The sisters, at least, can no longer wager on the children’s brawls.”

Chuckles filled the hall.

“I wonder,” Father Librarian said, louder, “what would’ve happened had you not been rescued by such a… charitable family. Still there, I imagine—brawling?”

Father Speaker cleared his throat.

But the Princess leaned forward, and the membranes slid across her eyes. It reminded Serai of a snake uncoiling. “Perhaps. But why bother without the wagers?”

The monks laughed again, and the tension eased.

The Princess raised her glass. She was the first Selachii in government since the Rebirth. “To fate.”

Everyone drank. Unwatched, Serai reached for her own glass, then hesitated. It seemed that while the Princess touched her wine to her lips, no liquid passed between them. She recalled Umbra’s grip, the urgency behind it, and replaced it on the table.

After dinner, Father Librarian gave a recitation on Hearth of old, Princess Umbra was added to the books, and the candles were extinguished.

Alone, Serai wandered back to her chambers. Her studies suddenly seemed dull, even that of the phoenix. She took several detours and found herself outside the guest quarters. The Princess’s room was dark. Had she not returned? Or gone for a walk of the grounds?

She stopped one of the rectory boys, who said he’d seen her leave dinner with Father Speaker, then hurried off. What would Father Speaker want to speak to the Princess about? She pictured the archaic scrolls waiting in her room, the woodcuts, and decided they would be there if she returned in two minutes or ten.

She stole quickly through the halls. Most of the brothers had returned to their quarters, to sleep and recharge their shunts.

She passed the cloisters, the stars flickering in the night sky, then the chapel house, and soon she mounted the spiral staircase to Father Speaker’s private chambers.

All was quiet. She could hear the distant factory out the window, the subtle clack of the looms, and as she approached, Father Speaker’s voice.

A thought arrived as she pressed her eye to the keyhole: if the shunts kept spinner’s sickness at bay, did all the monks already have it?

The Princess was sitting at the mahogany desk, her back to the door. Father Speaker appeared with a carafe of wine. “And I swear,” he said, familiar tributaries creasing his eyes, “the Duke said, Scrub them from the annals.”

The Princess laughed. “His son’s left-handed, for Gods’ sake.”

Serai’s heart shuddered—the valise! It lay by the Princess’s feet.

“Yes, well. I didn’t, of course.” Father Speaker sat. “But alas, the hour is late, and to tell the truth, a question has troubled me all day.”

“Of course.”

“Why have you come?”

The Princess cocked her head. “Why, to learn the many distant lands of my kingdom.”

“Yes, but…” Father Speaker sipped his wine. “Why have you come here?”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s been a delight, but this…” Father Speaker motioned, “this is a place of knowledge. It does not affect the price of grain or the movement of soldiers.”

“Quite the contrary. I believe the monastery contains something more important than both. It contains the planet’s stories.”

“Histories,” Serai whispered.

“Yes, yes,” said Father Speaker. “But what does that have to do with the Princess of the realm? An individual who is… well, not quite of the realm, if you’ll forgive me for saying. After all, the Selachii haven’t historically taken much an interest in—”

“Serai has.”

Serai drew in a breath and froze. If they heard her, she wouldn’t see the gift.

But Father Speaker’s eyes weren’t on the keyhole. His face contorted. Then, it broke into a grin, showing his wine-stained teeth. “Yes, well, that doesn’t count.”

“Doesn’t count? Why not?”

His smile grew sad. “Do you not know?”

Sweat gathered between against Serai’s cheek. She needed to leave. These words weren’t meant for her.

“I couldn’t be more honored to be one of your subjects,” Father Speaker said. “The progress made in my lifetime could fill ten spinners. But do you really think someone with your blood can pass our Trials? Serai failed the first round. I had to reduce the intensity of the test, much as I’ll have to do tomorrow. The senior brothers are outraged.”

The morning paraded past Serai in nightmarish, stuttering jerks, like an automaton in a carnival’s sideshow. He was lying…

“Reduce the intensity?” said the Princess. “What do you mean?”

The old monk waved a hand. “It’s not a judgement.”

“Of course. She just seems bright.”

“And engaging. But these are not the skills of a monk.”

“No?”

Father Speaker shook his head. “Good for showing the grounds to guests, maybe, but any minutiae will keep her up for hours. She studied the life of a delta farmer for a whole week. And she’s incapable of synthesizing any individual narratives into a whole.”

“Isn’t history the story of individuals?”

“That’s very good. But certain individuals, Princess. Not all.”

“Why let her stay? If she’s an embarrassment to the monastery and a position here is coveted, why not eject her?”

The old monk sighed. “I wish I could. But even an institution as renowned as ours isn’t allowed to govern itself. Do you know the grief we’ve received for our lack of…? What’s the word?”

“Variety?”

Serai’s mind cracked. Senchar was grandson and successor of Senchar Konung. A phoenix spends its life riding upon Hearth’s thermals, witnessing the world’s events from miles above.

“Variety, yes. Now, when it comes to music, dance, or another form of recreation, Selachii excel, but when it comes to knowledge and discipline, it’s a well-known fact that, historically, anyway, you all haven’t taken as much an interest in, you know…”

“The blood that runs in the delta’s soil?”

“Sorry?”

“Or the real reason the monks know how to harvest the foolstalk?”

He wrinkled his chin. “You’ve lost me.”

“But that’s the advantage of your system here. You can just… paper over any unpleasantries.”

He shook his head. “We don’t paper over anything, Princess. Like I said, it’s important to learn all the planet’s history, not just the moments we’re proud of.”

“For example?”

“What?”

“What moments aren’t you proud of?”

“You’d like a recitation?”

“I’d like an example.”

Father Speaker’s face darkened, and he looked at the Princess properly for the first time. “It’s late.”

“You know what I am, don’t you, Father?”

He rubbed his eyebrows and sighed. “No, Princess, what are you? A woman? An immigrant? A dataworm with access to a nexus portal?”

“Minutiae.”

Father Speaker’s mouth sprang open like a broken window.

It wasn’t a look of surprise, but rather as if his jaw had stopped working.

The old man raised a hand to probe it, to push his mouth closed, when his body shuddered, and his head snapped back.

The Princess lifted the valise. “Some triviality in the margins. But a world can reside in the margin. A people. And to erase that people, to paper over them, one must possess certain traits.” The Princess removed a long metal cord from the side of the valise. “Serai doesn’t possess them, not yet, but unfortunately for you, I do.”

Father Speaker tried to speak but only gurgled.

The Princess raised the cord and sunk it into his shunt. “Resolve, power, and a predilection towards violence. In my blood, but in yours, too. After all, Selachii and Terrans share a common ancestor. Though, a problem emerges within your beautiful, age-old system.” She turned a dial, and Father Speaker’s eyes ratcheted back into his head. “Allow enough time to pass, and you forget what you erased. A speck of troublesome minutiae could follow you around all day, nodding her head and asking pointed questions, and you’d never suspect a thing.”

Father Speaker vibrated, drool running in rivulets from his mouth.

“There’s a side effect to this invasion of the mind, of course.” The Princess bent close to his ear. “You call it spinner’s sickness. Like spiders, you’ve been allowed to spin your little webs for far too long. But no more. Once I’ve taken what I want, your shunt will fail, no longer protecting you.”

She flipped a switch inside the valise. The vibrating stopped, and the old man collapsed onto his desk. The Princess dislodged the cord from his skull. “Let’s see how powerful that brain really is.” She closed the valise, took Father Speaker’s keys, and opened the door. “Serai.”

The girl sat at the top of the stairs, her eyes blank and mouth ajar, as if she’d been at the other end of the cord, not the old man.

Princess Umbra kneeled. “Oh, Serai. Come, let me walk you back to your room. It isn’t safe.”

“He was peaceful,” she said softly. “The monks are peaceful.”

The Princess’s eyes hardened. “But those suckled on their histories are not. They’re the ones who burn villages, who turn little girls into orphans.” She gripped the bit of coal around her neck. “Now come. The lotus-drip I added to their wine will only hold for so long.”

“How will you be better?”

“What?”

“How will you be any better than them?”

Her eyes were bottomless.

It was as if someone else followed the Princess through the halls, not Serai. Nothing felt real. Not the stones in the floor, the candles in their holders, or the tapestries she’d loved as a child. They arrived at her chambers, and the Princess knelt. For a while, she didn’t speak.

“You could still stop me, I imagine, if you shouted loud enough.”

Serai didn’t.

The Princess entered Father Technician’s room first, then Father Librarian’s, then the others. It was so quiet, her burglary, so precise. Who knew a world could be dismantled so quickly? The Princess took every last treatise, soliloquy, and myth, and once she was finished, she paused at the front door, waiting for Serai, perhaps, to join her. When she didn’t, the Princess slipped from the monastery as gracefully as she’d come, a phantom among the poplars.

Morning’s dull light painted the walls. Serai’s legs ached, and her robes felt too heavy. She should get rid of them. But what would remain?

The whirligig rose from the valley below. Serai felt something solidify within her as she watched, a hardness she’d always carry. She wouldn’t mourn the monks, babbling and drooling throughout the monastery’s halls. But she would honor their traditions, one last time.

Once knowledge enters a new brother’s mind, it must be destroyed.

She opened all the doors. She removed a candle from the wall and touched it to the curtains, the carpet, and the tapestries.

For every century, the phoenix must burst into flames, to be born anew.

It didn’t take long after that.

No one noticed Serai enter the village. Laborers scrambled into their boots, shouted and filled whatever they could with well water. A bell tolled nearby, and smoke reddened the ground.

Her house was as she remembered. The low furniture, the smell of moist earth. She wanted to stay, to sleep, but her uncle would return from his shift any moment. Serai found an old pair of work clothes. She packed a bag with apples and bread and cheese, then thought better of it. She eased the backdoor shut and was nearly through the yard, ash drifting past, when she saw the foolscap.

It was a small piece pinned to a tree. She had no idea how it got there, but on it was written in charcoal: For Serai, a gift.

Below it was the valise.

A crash echoed down the hillside. She turned as half the monastery collapsed in a gush of smoke and debris.

“Who are we?” Father Speaker asked. He was inside her now, like every history she’d ever learned, not blind and babbling but present in all his contradictions.

Serai wiped her eyes. “We are the archivists.” She entered the woods, and the cries of the village faded behind her.

“And what do we do?” he asked, hitching his robes to keep up.

She adjusted her grip on the valise. The world’s story lay inside it, true and false and everything in between. It was her job to distribute it. That was her gift. “We protect the history of Humankind.”

END