The Nethergrim by Jobin Matthew

The Nethergrim by Jobin Matthew

Author:Jobin, Matthew [Jobin, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-04-08T00:00:00+00:00


Chapter

15

She has a Voice.

Edmund shivered. He had burned through the last of his family’s store of oil, and charred up the wick of the lantern to a crisp. The window of his bedroom stood open for light, but it let in a hard blue draft.

It is beautiful beyond expression. Firm Hand, author of the last of the pages in the book, scribbled in the margins around a twist of ancient symbol: It is the first time I have ever felt what other men describe as love.

“Who are you?” Edmund leaned low on his arm. “Who is She?” He stared at the script, but it gave no answer.

She cannot die. She cannot ever die. Fool that I was to think it. The script lost its firmness, turning spidery and crowding to the edges of the page: She is the fount and source of all thought, all power, all that is hidden to men. Those who served Her long ago rose to a dominion beyond the dreams of kings. I will do as they once did, I will serve Her as they once served Her. She has called, and I have answered. I am to be Hers forever.

Edmund sat back and rubbed at his eyes. Geoffrey’s spare tunic hung over the edge of the trunk beside him—a hand-me-down, like all of his clothes. Toys lay piled in the corner: a few knights carved from bits of wood, a sword made of sticks bound with twine, a top that never spun right.

“I will find you.” Edmund pinched across the bridge of his nose, half to wake himself and half to stop himself from blubbing. “I swear I will.” He searched again through all the places in the book where he had found some hint, some guess at a direction in the mountains.

Two centers, one a city, the other a forbidden stronghold for the Gatherers. A place where rivers join in a valley. A list came next, the names of all the rivers Edmund knew and one he did not: The Tamber, the Rushing, the Mara, the Swift. Do they all drain south? Ask Aelfric if he has a copy of Plegmund.

“Plegmund.” Edmund beat at his weary mind. The same Plegmund who wrote Journey Beyond the White Sea? Aelfric—Lord Aelfric?

A rap at the door: “Edmund? Son?”

Edmund jammed the book behind his bolster just in time. His mother opened the door. “Oh, son—you didn’t sleep.”

“Mum, we can save him.” Edmund sat on his quill. “We can save Geoffrey, I know it.”

His mother lowered herself down at his side. “My boy.” She touched his hair. “My good boy.” She had not slept either—he had heard her weeping through the walls for the whole of the night.

“Oh, my son.” She dragged a kerchief across her face, then blew her nose. “You loved your brother, didn’t you? You did.”

Edmund grabbed her sleeve. “Don’t talk like he’s dead—Mum, he’s not dead!”

“You tried.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ll never forget that you tried.”

“Please don’t give up. Mum, don’t.”

His mother balled up the kerchief, then stretched it out.



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