The ronan scrolls, p.1
The Ronan Scrolls, page 1
The Ronan Scrolls
Katie Cross
Contents
A Note on the Text
1. Durston
2. Flux
3. The Eastern Highway
4. The Southern Network
5. Taiza
6. Letum Wood
7. The Great Library
8. The Western Covens
9. Chatham City
10. The Central Highway
11. Letum Wood Again
12. The Cave
13. Announcement of Demise
Miss Mabel’s School for Girls
Also by Katie Cross
About Katie
The Ronan Scrolls
YA Fantasy
Text copyright © 2019 by Katie Cross
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places, is entirely coincidental.
Cover designed by Seedlings Design Studio
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author. For information regarding permission, send a query to the author at katie@kcrosswriting.com.
Published by KC Writing. Visit www.kcrosswriting.com for more information about the author, updates, or new books.
KINDLE EDITION • VERSION 1.3
A Note on the Text
The adventures of Ronan the Traveler first circulated around the reign of the 390th High Priest of the Western Network after the Mortal Wars, about the time that High Priest Isra Mona of the West had been deceased for three centuries.
Ronan’s many accounts were copied and distributed in secret for decades. False, incomplete copies abound. I, and many others, have given our lives to protect and expand his truths.
Now, at the sunset of my life, after dedicating myself to the cause of a magic I did not hold myself, I resign these writings to a place of ultimate safety and trust that they will be protected until the world is ready for the truth again.
Here is Ronan’s true story.
Signed,
Martorius
1
Durston
3rd day, 4th week, 1st month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
They burned my brother on a stake.
For this reason, my grief and questions have driven me to study his “mental condition,” starting in the Northern Network. I feel I must scour Alkarra from top to bottom in my search to understand his life and decisions. My questions cannot be ignored—I feel restless in my heart and soul. He died from this strange ailment—or rather, because of it. His confinement was wrong. He was not crazy. Something was different, yes. But not harmful. Not dangerous.
Something gave him sight. I will figure it out in his name. This seems the best place to start.
Father disapproves. “It is a wild search,” he said with a heavy brow. “Rodan was afflicted with madness.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “You are an accomplished apothecary, respected through the entirety of the Western Network. You would have seen the signs.”
At this, his eyes drooped, as if they ached. Perhaps I could have been softer, but I don’t see how. Truth isn’t soft. Perhaps my departure makes him feel like he’s lost another son. He hasn’t been well since Rodan’s violent death. He needs the solace that only comes with time. I can see it burning in his eyes, and this yearning for silence is something I understand. Besides, we can hardly meet each other’s eyes these days.
Perhaps he knows my awful truth.
“I cannot forbid you, Ronan.” He passed a weary hand over his face. “You have always made your own decisions—though usually in a laboratory or a library.”
To that, I had no rebuttal. His concern is well founded: I am naive in the ways of the world. I have never slept under the stars or hunted for my own food or traveled on my own, despite being twenty-four years old and only a scholar.
Still, I go. I must. Redemption isn’t free.
With me, I have brought four empty scrolls bound with leather. They curl snugly into a container also wrapped in leather—this ensures they’ll be safe in any weather. The container was Rodan’s. Two scrolls, the heartiest, will be for my observations; the other two for my scholarly notes, citations, data, and blessed, beautiful, irrefutable facts. These are the things we need the most. It’s likely that years will pass before I find the answers I seek.
Was Rodan, my twin, mad? Or did he truly see the future?
Here are the facts on which I base my expedition:
My twin brother, Rodan, was burned on a star-shaped stake because he claimed to see the future.
His death is my fault.
2nd day, 1st week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
My trip begins without excitement.
I am in the North, a place I never imagined I would go, though I read extensively about it during my geological research several years ago. Already, I miss my island home off the coast.
Durston is where I have procured an inn—I find it to be a charming mountain town. Goats far surpass witches in number. The witches are quite fond of their smelly little flocks. Goats serve several practical purposes here, such as milk, food, and they use the hides as warm winter clothing. Their cheese is delicious on a fried cake, amongst other things.
The views of this wild mountain world are beyond words. Vocabulary fails me when I try to describe the rocky brilliance of these purplish peaks. Landslides occasionally plummet from the top of a peak in a spray of dust, like foam. Distant specks of something in flight lead the locals to make a sign and swear by the mountain dragons.
The locals are kind. They seem unafraid of my questions. When I ask about witches with special abilities, they are unbothered, unlike those at home. They shrug and say little. Perhaps they have not seen many. Some witches watch me from a distance.
Several possibilities occur to me—perhaps these witches are curious, frightened, or don’t want me here. Only one of the witches seems intent on studying me, and appears wherever I go. It’s a male, with a thick, dark beard and beady eyes. I believe I first incurred his attention at a pub, when I asked the owner about witches afflicted by madness and claiming to see the future.
Perhaps I am paranoid.
For now, I sleep in a makeshift tent on the ground beneath the northern stars. The ground is hard, lumpy, and cold. My stomach already hurts—I wrongly assumed what food I packed would last longer. Exertion truly does sharpen the appetite.
The locals have warned me about mountain dragons, but I’m confident I could be little more than a snack, with my thin arms and meager body—that Rodan used to make fun of constantly. Dragons shall not be a problem.
Tomorrow, I will speak to the local village chief and ascertain what she knows.
3rd day, 1st week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
Mountain dragons accosted me all night, screaming and tearing through the sky overhead. As I write, my hands shake and my teeth chatter—I feel lucky to be alive. The terror of hearing them outside my makeshift tent, as if they would rip me apart, forced me to plunge into the forest and hide. The darkness blinded me as I ran. Bloody lash marks run all over my arms and hands. Sheer luck brought me back to my tent and scrolls.
Eventually, I found a collection of boulders and wedged myself between and underneath some of them. There I remained through the night. My muscles ache—I will have extensive bruising on my left leg and arm—but I am alive.
Daylight is here, and the attacks have ebbed. I shall sleep now and find an inn before evening.
Perhaps this will be more dangerous than I expected.
4th day, 1st week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
The bearded man was in Durston when I went to inquire about an inn. I found no lodging available. He watched me but made no move to come closer.
I spent the entire afternoon attempting to fish. Saw not another soul—which felt good and perhaps kept me from losing all sanity. In the end, after at least six hours of fishing, I caught a small mountain trout. Then I realized I had no idea how to clean the innards. Thankfully, the years Father employed me as an assistant have given me some anatomical knowledge. Still, the fish was hacked to death with a rock that wasn’t very sharp.
I had a small meal of poor fish meat and still feel ravenous before sleep. Hopefully, this rocky outcropping, like a cave, will protect me from dragons.
My pride forbids me to return home to Father so soon.
5th day, 1st week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
My attempts to meet the local leader have failed. One female witch and one male barred my path. They spoke in a language I didn’t understand. Despite my fluency in eight languages, I have no knowledge of this one. Managed to scrounge up some greens that tasted bitter, and a young, stale mushroom.
Unseen obstacles appear to be my greatest foe. Only the weather is in my favor.
Later that night …
A downpour of rain has left me soaked and chilled to the bone. I write this only that Father may know, if my body is found cold and dead in the morning, that I cared for him.
6th day, 1st week , 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
Hunger drove me back into Durston—where the locals still eye me strangely and the man with the black beard still follows my every step. I ignore them, for witches also regarded me strangely at home.
It’s not often that I am forced to admit there is something I don’t know, but I must relent after a third night accosted by mountain dragons and no more than an hour or two of sleep in the past three days.
I have finally found a small inn, run by an elderly woman who makes a delicious stew out of goat meat. She has ebony skin, white hair, and laugh lines around her eyes. She lives alone. Here in the North, they rarely use currency, so my coins are of no use to her. She has agreed to house me if I split firewood. My hunger spoke for me—I agreed before thinking to check her axe, which wasn’t enchanted. Now, my palms are blistered and bloody. My arms and shoulders ache. The very teeth in my head feel jarred from chopping so much.
Physical labor is not, I find, very agreeable.
Tonight, I dined on cheese, milk, stew, and crusty bread. I believe I ate enough for ten men. I shall sleep in a bed stuffed with feathers and perhaps not wake for days. While appreciating these creature comforts, I can’t help but think of Rodan. He shall never experience these things for himself again, and it leaves my full belly feeling hollow.
1st day, 2nd week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
The old woman, Gelda, has offered to teach me how to properly pitch my tent, tie a correct fishing line, and find my own bait. I would be surprised that a woman as gnarled and crippled as she would even offer, but in such a stark, mountainous place, one has to survive somehow. She’s reached an advanced age, hasn’t she? I eagerly accepted her offer. Instead of chopping wood this time, I have agreed to write letters to her family members and read to her at night, for she doesn’t know how.
This lengthens my stay here, but now that I am away from the mountain dragons, I will accept this shift in schedule. Despite not finding any witches infected with future-seeing madness, I continue to ask about it. Witches from higher elevations journey down here, so there are always new witches to speak with.
Gelda advises me not to ask around too much. Witches up here don’t appreciate change or strangers. I am undaunted in the cause of science. For how can we name the issues Rodan had if I cannot find others with the same condition?
I asked about the village leader, but she shrugged and said no more, instead turning to stare at the fire.
5th day, 2nd week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
My education with Gelda progresses steadily. I have successfully created my own fishing device, dug in the loamy earth for worms (a task I rather enjoyed, for I cherish all things earthy and geological), and caught a fish for myself again. Gelda also taught me how to start a fire without magic. I cannot fathom a time when I would have to do so, but I appreciated the chance to broaden my knowledge.
I digress, for I have something to report: I believe I have found another witch with my brother’s … problem.
Today, while walking into the local village to attempt (again) to speak with the village leader, I happened upon an elderly witch on the side of the road.
Crevasses of sagging skin tanned by the sun draped his face. Like Gelda, he had dark skin. He leaned on a thin stick and peered at me through deep-set eyes.
At first taken aback by the intensity of his stare (I never have been good at introducing myself, unless to a book), I stopped. We stared at each other for several seconds. Despite the initial confrontation, I felt no malice from him. In the usual method of Northern Network witches, I inclined my head by way of greeting. He returned the gesture.
I relaxed a little.
“Those that see ahead,” he said in the common language. “You’re looking for them.”
Use of the common tongue shows some level of education I haven’t seen much up here. They have their own chattering language that I’ve been able to mostly parse together. Gelda has been teaching me, as well. I believe, at one time, they had a mother language, for there are similarities between this language and the historical pimpernalian language of the Northern Network. These individual villages have been so isolated from each other due to the rugged mountains that I believe they’ve created their own dialects.
I digress again.
“Who are you speaking about?” I asked. My heart began to race.
“That which you seek.”
“Do they have a name?”
He shook his head.
“You speak of witches and not a condition of the mind, correct?” I asked.
“Yes.”
At this, my mind spun. Not even the mob that killed my brother had a word for it. Madness, they chanted, dragging him by the wrists. Kill those who are mad before they kill us all!
Perhaps no one in Alkarra knows what this is—magic or madness. If there is no name, I feel there is likely no understanding, either.
“Do they have a name?” I repeated.
He held up a rickety hand. “They watch.”
“What?”
“The future.”
At this, I had no inkling of how to proceed and fell silent. Memories of Rodan accosted me all at once. There had been strange moments, to be sure. He mumbled about paths and witches and trees, shook his head often, fell into dazes, but never spoke of the future. Naturally, his behavior had led to the conclusion that this was a sickness of the mind.
“Do you know of any witches who see the future?” I asked, realizing that I might have stumbled on a witch that was, perhaps, stark-raving mad. He frowned.
“They will come.”
“Who will come?”
“If I …”
At this, a twig snapped behind me, on the other side of the road. The forest here is at least four times my height. Despite the open spaces between the trees, I find it disorienting. My island is all sky and water. This feels … tighter.
I whirled around—for Gelda has also given me extensive education on the predators that populate these trees. Fortunately, no lumbering mountain lion or dragon waited behind me. When I turned back around, the old man had disappeared.
I can’t help but wonder why he left. Logically, it would seem that he feared something. Until the sound came from behind me, he gave no indication of stress. No dilation of the eyes, flushing of the cheeks, or panting breaths. Still, he had no reason to just leave, unless he felt he had said too much, which also makes no logical sense. He said nothing of importance.
Unless he did, but I have not yet understood it.
Perhaps it is madness, and I have grasped for a false hope on my brother’s behalf. For how could one watch the future?
My mind is muddled tonight, and Gelda solemn. I would tell her about what happened, but I prefer to think it over myself. My mind craves rest and darkness.
1st day, 3rd week, 2nd month of spring
Durston, Northern Network
My learning of the local language—which is called littan—has been rewarded. I have finally been granted permission to request an audience with the local leader. By sheer luck today, I caught a glimpse of her. She’s a slight female with hair all the way to her knees and flashing eyes.
According to their custom, a stranger to the village must live amongst their witches and learn to speak littan before they can address her. I have weighed whether it is advantageous to spend more time here and memorize all facets of the language so I may speak formally—for I am already conversant in it. I have decided to stay for another week.
Besides, summer moves in. The nights are growing warm. I could transport home anytime, but Rodan’s empty bed—and Father’s hollow eyes—keeps me away. It also motivates me to continue working.
