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“High Lady, I am honored to bring before you Writer Shelan, Daughter of the Keep, may the Light ever descend upon her.” The ancient man’s white hair brushed the marble floor as he bowed more deeply than his apparent frailty made him seem capable of. He straightened and turned to address me.

“Writer Shelan, Daughter of the Keep, may the Light ever descend upon you, I am honored to present to you the High Lady of Cadrithian, whose Name may not be spoken. You have brought an offering, yes?” Frail hands, translucent skin stretched tightly over knobby, arthritic knuckles and blue veins, stretched toward me. I fished deeply in my sleeve, and produced with a slight flourish a small roll of parchment. Without further ceremony, the paper made its way from my hands, to the skeletal hands of the servant, to the High Lady.

A gift from a Writer was a rarity, even for the Highborn. The Keep was jealous of the ability of its Daughters, the Writers above all, and did not like public demonstrations.

The High Lady looked for a long moment at the small scroll that rested in her palm. It bore neither seal nor ribbon. She knew it is safe to touch, for had it not been, her withered servant would have detected it and I would already have been dead.

The scroll made a soft sound as it was unrolled, as if it was whispering its contents. It was not the single word scrawled in midnight ink that was the usual gift of a Writer. On the small paper, four words flowed in crimson ink, I touch his hand.

The High Lady was quite aware of the power the small paper could give her, but unlike most others would have done in her place, she gave no sign of desire to use – or abuse- the power I had given her, and I knew I had made the correct choice. For this sort of power, you had to pick people who knew how to exercise it in the proper way.

If only the Keep felt the same way….

The High Lady nodded, the slight movement caught by the sharp eyes of the old man. He addressed me again.

“Acceptable. What does the Keep ask of the High Lady?”

I kept my eyes glued to the floor as I spoke.

“I do not come as an emissary of the Keep, High Lady. I come on my own behalf.” I breathed heavily, aware of the ramifications of what I had just said.

“I know that I have no right to address the high Lady.” I rushed on, raising my eyes to meet those of the High Lady, as well dead for a sheep as a lamb. “I beg only that the High Lady hear what I have to say.”

A long silence descended, and the one who’s Name could not be spoken took full measure of me with her crystal eyes.

Suddenly she rose from her seat, waving her servant away, and stepped down in front of me.
“Walk with me, Writer.”

I rose and fell in step beside her.

“I have something that I feel I must show you if you are to understand the full gravity of my situation.” She nodded indulgently and motioned for me to lead on.

She followed me to the large, covered cart I had arrived in. I unlaced the canvas flap at the back and pulled it open. Inside sat a man, his long legs folded underneath him. His dark hair fell past his shoulders. His boots stood to his side next to his folded black coat. The long sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, exposing an intricate tattoo that climbed his left forearm. His eyes were closed.

When I turned to her again, the High Lady’s eyes were wide and riveted to the man in the wagon.

“He is a Speaker” she breathed.

The Speaker’s eyes opened and fixed on the High Lady’s eyes, causing her to inhale sharply. His eyes were solid black. A smile crept halfway onto his face.

“He is, High Lady, but he is not only a speaker.” Her bright eyes snapped to my face, fear and wonder warring in them, then comprehension.

“He Writes?”

“He does, High Lady.”

Wonder won out, and the High Lady stared openly at the man.

After along moment, she spoke again. “We must take him before the Six.”

At this declaration, the man finally spoke. “I’m afraid I won’t be going before them, High Lady.”

“But there are rules…”

He opened his mouth to tell her that he was finished with her rules, and with her, too, if need be.

“Speaker…” I warned in a low voice.

The Speaker’s eyes shot to my face, flashing with hot anger, but they quickly cooled. It was only when he relaxed back to the floor of the cart that I realized that he had risen.

“Do what you must, Writer.”

I dropped the canvas back into place, and turned to find the High Lady’s haughty composure fled. Her elegant features had turned fish-like, all bulging eyed, wide mouthed fear, but she schooled her features quickly. We resumed walking, making our way slowly back the way we came.

“The Keep has no knowledge of him. I have hidden him, but he has told me things that frighten me. Sometimes he thought he could hear footsteps beyond his door – not when the food was delivered, but at other times when everything was still and the only other sound was the buzz of insects in the distant trees. Those were his exact words.”

We walked in silence for a time. Spending time with a Speaker had taught me that words were not always as necessary as people thought them to be.

“You know that there are no true secrets, Writer...”

“So, you will take me before the Six.”

“I have a duty…” she seemed to fumble for the right words. “…there are rules…”

Silence descended again as we made our way across the vast, cobbled courtyard to a high canvas tent. I followed the High Lady into the enclosure, ducking through a low flap in the wall.

Six men sat in an outward-facing circle, chained hand and foot to a raised platform. Their heads were shaved, and their naked bodies were oiled and gleamed in the light of the fires burning in each corner of the tent. The fires let off sweet and heavy smoke that floated in lazy swirls along the ceiling. The smell was heady and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the relaxation that crawled through my body.

The eyes of the Six were glazed, far off, as if they were seeing things others didn’t. I felt them staring into my mind, my soul.

One of the Six spoke.

“You Wrote true when you Wrote for the High Lady. You did touch him, but you are no longer the only one. Another stretches forth his hand as I speak to you. Your Speaker is dying.”

I did not remember leaving the tent, but I must have run. I reached the cart and threw open the canvas. The Speaker lay, slumped forward. A large knife stood up from his back. His eyes fluttered, and he whispered, “…they know…they are looking for you…they do not bring you a swift death. A thanks for your kindnesses, Writer…” Then the air around me rippled as he Spoke.

“Die."

The Light surronded me, wrapping me in warm, liquid gold.