That evening, after a long day of writing in the treated parchments as the queen recited both history and verse, Moses sat on his bed contemplating.
There was more to this than just merely copying words.
When the queen switched in those moments, head back, eyes closed, chanting words—that was more than just gibberish. It had meaning. He knew it did. But he could not understand what it was.
It was as if memories were leaking out of her, but it was more than just memories. It was—something more sacred—deeper and older.
If he was meant to copy it, it must have been for a reason. Did the queen, somewhere in her broken mind, remember the codex? Was it leaking out?
And why was Leona seemingly against whatever rite it was that the queen wanted to perform?
Needing answers, he quietly knocked on Leona's door.
She cracked it open moments later, eyes shadowed, her voice barely above a whisper.
He had awoken her.
"What is it, Moses?" she asked, keeping the door cracked.
"I think it's time for the truth," he said.
"About what?"
"About what I am writing."
She opened the door a little wider.
"What do you mean?"
"You knew, didn't you? That I wasn't just recording her ramblings. That I was… I'm restoring it, aren't I? The Codex. From her memories."
She stared at him, her eyes wide, and then pulled her door open, glancing up and down the hallway to make sure it was otherwise empty.
"Come in," she said.
They regarded each other for a moment, her seated at the edge of her bed, him standing at the door.
"Please, sit," she said, indicating a chair near a bureau.
He did.
"It's not normal ink or parchment," he said. "Even the quill is not normal. What kind of feather is it?"
“That quill came from a cockatrice.”
"A cockatrice? That's a myth!"
"They are real," Leona said. "Or they were real."
Moses shook his head. "That's impossible. Weren't they supposed to turn you to stone just by looking at you?"
"You're thinking of a gorgon like Medusa," Leona said. "And those were myth. But the cockatrice was very real. They don't turn you to stone by looking at you, but they can paralyze you with their bite. My grandfather killed this one and only four quills remain. So getting more will not be an easy task."
"Then I will be very careful with them," Moses said. "What about the ink?"
"Moonwake," she said. "Resin distilled from the sap of the Torqwood, harvested only once every three years."
"During the Occlusion?" he asked.
"Yes, good guess," she said. "When Isen vanishes from the sky. The sap is then mixed with powdered memory stone—a pale crystalline mineral. To stabilize it, the ink must be bound with the blood of a truth-teller."
"A truth teller?"
"It's a rare order of Ashiran monks who never speak falsehood."
"Someone has to be killed to make it?"
"No," she laughed. "No, but we do need a drop of blood for each vial."
"Am I right that you're trying to have me recreate the Codex that was consumed by the queen's ancestor?"
Leona sighed and looked at him. "What do you know?"
"Halveth IV reached a bargain with Ashira to store the power of the Celestial Codex inside him and now each monarch passes it down to an heir to guard it. But the codex itself is gone. So it's—inside the queen? Inside her mind?"
She nodded. "Then you know most of it," she said.
"Why didn't you just do this yourself?"
"I told you, the ink does not flow for me."
"Why not?"
"It's a bloodline thing," she said.
"Enlighten me," he said.
"Only certain bloodlines could wield the magic when it was in the world."
"So I can, but you can't? That's why you have me doing this?"
"No," she said. "It's the opposite."
This time he stared at her.
"See," she said. "I was born of a line that used to be mages, possessors of magic, powered by the Celestial Codex. But since its disappearance, two centuries ago, our line has been nothing but servants."
"You're a descendant of mages?" he asked.
"Yes."
"So you'd like to see the Celestial Codex restored to get your power back?" he asked.
"No—well," she seemed flustered. "Yes, I guess that's true."
"But the queen said that mages did very dangerous and unnatural things," Moses said.
"She's right," Leona confessed. "But that doesn't mean that it has to be that way."
"I don't understand," Moses said. "I can't learn magic, but I can write it?"
"Yes, that's how it works. Someone who doesn't understand can scribe the words verbatim, just as Ashira did once. Record history, don't analyze the words of power. If I try to do it, the vellum burns up, the ink is consumed by moonfire."
"So that's why you need me. A non-mageblood who can just stupidly copy?"
"It's not stupidly," Leona said. "I don't think of it that way."
"So, the queen wields all the magical power in the world?"
"No," Leona said. "She's not mageblood. She's merely a vessel. A container. It gives her strength, but also wears her out. It's the burden her line has carried for two centuries. They must be vessels that hold the magic."
"So that's why she wants to give it over to Alyse, so Alyse can be the vessel to replace her."
"Yes," Leona said. "And if she is successful, Alyse will bear the burden."
"But you'd rather have it flow through me to the page?"
"The world is failing without the magic. But it's worse than that," she said.
"How?"
"If the queen dies without passing it on, either to Alyse, or to a new Codex—"
"What?" Moses asked.
"It's the song of creation," she said simply.
"So?"
"Creation will unravel. Everything—and I mean everything—will end."
"So it has to go to Alyse!"
"Or the new Codex you are writing."
"And you'd prefer the latter."
"Yes, I would," Leona said.
"But the queen would prefer to give it to Alyse through some rite."
Leona said nothing, just cast her eyes down at her unfinished scone.
"Did the queen really send for me, or did you?"
"I did," Leona said. "I thought it was the only way to preserve it. To…preserve all of creation."
"But you're substituting your own will for the queen's. She wants to pass it on to her granddaughter. You want it to come to you!"
"I won't deny I have my preference, but it can't just fade. That's why I need you to continue copying it."
"How will we know when it's done? When she's said everything?"
"Magic will return to the world."
"Or, magic will be stored in Alyse, the next vessel," Moses said. "The queen's will. We must follow the queen's will."
"And if she can't think clearly enough for long enough, then all is lost!"
"Maybe and maybe not," Moses said. "What if it's just a myth?"
"I can't believe that."
"What I can't believe is that you are substituting your will for our queen's."
"I am not!"
"You are," Moses said. "You've delayed things. When you were supposed to get Alyse, it took you too long. And then you were opposed to keeping Alyse in the working chamber with us. You stopped me from writing the Queen's order that we bring the princess to her. You never even asked what she wanted. You never even asked what the princess wanted."
“Moses, I—”
“Admit it,” he said. “You chose your will over the queen’s. You chose your will over her heir’s.”
“You think I want this?” she snapped suddenly, rising to pace. “You think I enjoy choosing who gets to bear the end of the world? I can't just let the world end just to stay pure!”
“You need to confess this. To the queen and the princess,” Moses said.
“We don’t have time for that!” she snapped. “If the Codex fades, rivers forget where to run. Light forgets how to fall. The name of things slips. One by one, people fade, existence unravels."
She stood there, her fingers balled into fists. "No," she said. "You need to keep copying. The queen could die tonight, and when she does, how much longer do you think the world has?”
"That's not the point," he said, firm in his resolve. He hadn’t seen the queen decline today. No fresh lapse. No new trembling. Just Leona’s fear—and her will, growing harder.
"It's the whole point," she said.
"It's your whole point, but you've made a decision that isn't yours to make. They might have finished the rite by now, secured everything, if you hadn't delayed."
"You don't know that," she said, feeling the accusation.
Moses stood. "Neither do you. But you decided something that wasn't your to decide."
"Look, we're on the same team," she said. "We don't have to be at odds."
"You're right," he said. "All you need to do is confess what you've done to the queen."
"It could mess everything up!" she insisted.
He stood.
"You need to do the right thing," he said. "If you don’t tell them, I will."
"You'd risk everything for your pride?"
"You've got this grand plan to return magic to the world, through me. A decision you are trying to make unilaterally and clearly against what the queen wants."
"We don't even know what she wants!" Leona said. "We can never be sure moment-to-moment which version of her is in charge."
“I disagree," Moses said. “I believed in you, Leona. I thought we were preserving something sacred. But you’re rewriting it in secret. That’s not preservation. That’s betrayal. If you want to do this, fine, but you need to tell the queen your plans, not do it behind her back.”
"You can be replaced," Leona said, sternly.
"So can you," Moses said.
He left, closing the door behind him.
The door to his chamber burst open just past midnight.
Moses sat up, blinking in the dim candlelight. Two guards stood at the threshold, armored and grim.
“What—?”
“You’re to come with us, Scribe,” one of them said.
“Why? What’s happened?”
They didn’t answer. One stepped forward and grabbed his satchel. The other gestured for Moses to rise.
Half-dressed and barefoot, he was led through silent halls, the marble cold beneath his feet. It wasn’t until they passed the royal wing—away from the queen’s chambers—that he understood.
Leona waited at the rear gate.
Her cloak was drawn tight against the chill, her jaw rigid. She did not look like herself. She looked like a woman on the edge of something terrible.
“Leona,” Moses said, “what is this?”
“We don't have time.”
“So you’re throwing me out?”
“Your forced my hand.” Her voice was flat. “You threatened to destroy the one chance we have to save everything.”
“You’re afraid,” Moses said. “You’re afraid Alyse will finish the rite and it won’t need you anymore.”
That struck her. For a moment, she said nothing.
Then: “You are not the guardian of this kingdom. You are a scribe. A good one. But disposable.”
He stepped toward her. “I was your ally.”
“You were,” she said, pain flickering behind her eyes. “But you stopped listening.” She nodded to the guards. “Take him past the southern wall. Leave him with his things. No harm.”
“You won’t even tell Alyse?”
Leona didn’t answer. She turned away.
As the guards pulled him back, Moses shouted, “When this collapses, when she finds out—she won’t forgive you!”
Leona didn’t turn. But her voice reached him, low and bitter.
“There will be no forgiveness if the world ends."
Then, turning to the guards, she said, "Spread the word. This man is not to be let back into the keep."
The gate creaked open. Cold wind swept in.
Leona's hands trembled slightly as the gate closed. But she didn’t look back.
And Moses Miller, scribe of no renown, was cast out into the night.
The cockatrice quill jutted out from the top of his satchel, bobbing as he walked into the wind. A relic of magic. A weapon of memory. Now just a feather in his pack.
Stephen B. Anthony is the author of Transmigrant, an epic science fiction thriller, available on both Amazon and Audible. The first seven chapters are available on this website for free.
Nice ramping up of tension.
The stuff you come up with is amazing! You’re just brimming with stories, Mr. Anthony!