Act V — First Fire

Page 33 — Uaellaen's First Lie

I told them he was alive.

I want the record to be careful about this page, because the careful is the whole of the camp, and the careful does not cover this one. I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the careful: on every other page of this story I have kept the record the way the record is kept — the plain voice, the order of the day, the count of the camp, the parts that the camp owed the world and the parts the world owed the camp. This page is not that page. This page is the one I will keep apart from the record, and the keeping-apart is the only care this page gets. I have written a hundred records in a hundred sanctums in the old world, and the hundred was the archmage's part in the old world; this is the first record I have written that holds a lie in it, and the first is the one the new world owed the camp.

At the fire, on the night after the keeping began, with the five of us around it and the kept place by the hearth.

The keeping had begun on the sixteenth, and the night was the night after, and the night was the one the camp owed the fire. The fire was in the center, and the fire was the one thing that was ours. The five of us were around it — Rumzuck at the front with his hands folded over the grip; Smackage with his palm flat on the sand by the wall; Wreckreate where the water's corner met the fire; Zahlia a little back from the light, her hands in her lap. And the sixth place, by the hearth, set a little back from the light, with no chair in it. I did not look at the sixth place while I said it — the looking would have been the end of the saying. I looked at the fire, and the fire did not answer, and the not-answering was the one place I could say a thing and keep it.

I said: I felt him. Once, through the Veil. A thread of his light — east, moving, patient. He is alive, and he is walking, and the walking is toward the signal.

I will keep the saying in the record, because the record is owed the saying, and I will keep it word for word, because the word-for-word is the one the lie owes the record. The five of us were around the fire, and the five-of-us was the one the camp owed the night. The saying went out over the fire the way the saying goes — plain, and once, and the once was the whole of the saying's part in the night. I did not raise my voice, and the not-raising was the archmage's part in the saying: the archmage does not sell a thing he says at the fire, and the not-selling was the one I had kept since the old world. I said the thread, and the thread was the one the Veil owed the saying; I said the east, and the east was the one the reading owed the saying; I said the patient, and the patient was the one I owed the saying, and the owing was the part the record will not cover, because the covering is the one the careful does not reach.

It was not quite true.

I will say the not-quite, because I will spend it once and I will spend it here, and the once-and-here is the one the record owed the not-quite. I felt something, at the water's edge, on the night I went alone. I will keep that in the record, because the record is owed the night: I went to the water's edge alone on the night before the fire — the night between the answer and the saying — and I went the way the archmage goes when the craft has to do the work the camp does not owe him, alone, by the tundra, with the lid under the feet and the flat of the water on the left. And I felt something.

A thread, or the shape of a thread.

I will say the or in the plain voice, because the record is owed the or. The craft under my ribs holds the shape of what it finds, and the holding was the archmage's part in the night. What it held, that night, at the water's edge, was a thread — or the shape of a thread, and the or was the one the craft did not let me settle. I have held the shape of a thousand findings in a thousand sanctums, and the thousand was the archmage's part in the old world; I have never held a shape that would not settle, and the never was the one the old world did not owe the craft. The thread, or the shape of a thread, went east — or toward the east, and the or was the one the direction owed the craft. The water was flat, and the silver was on it, and the two were the night's part in the water; and under the silver, or in the shape of under the silver, the thread, or the shape of the thread, moved — or did not move, and the or was the one the motion owed the craft, and the craft owed the or to me, and I owed the or to the night.

And it was patient, or I wanted it to be.

The wanting is the part I did not tell them, and the not-telling was the whole of the lie's part in the night. I will say the wanting in the record, because the record is owed the wanting, even here, even where the careful does not cover the page: I wanted it to be patient. The wanting was the one I owed the thread, and the owing was the part the craft did not find, because the craft finds the thing the world has, and the wanting is the thing the world does not have. The camp that has lost one of its six keeps the wanting for the one lost, and the keeping was the camp's part in the wanting; and the archmage of the camp, on the night at the water's edge, found the shape of a thread, or the thread — the east the camp had been owed since the bones said east — and the owing was the one the wanting put into the finding. I did not tell them the wanting, because the telling of the wanting would be the end of the camp, and the camp is the one thing I was still owed. I will say that last part in the plain voice, because it is the one the record can keep: the camp is the one thing I was still owed. The world is not owed the six of us a welcome, and the not-owed is the whole of the world; but the camp is owed to me, and the owing is the one the camp kept for the archmage since the white, and the white owed the camp the archmage, and the archmage owed the camp the camp.

I looked at their faces while I said it.

I will keep the faces in the record, because the record is owed the faces. Four of them took it the way the fire takes wood — Rumzuck, with his hands folded over the grip, the folded the ogre's part in the taking; Smackage, with his palm flat on the sand, the flat the ground's part in the taking; Wreckreate, who had said the bones went east on the third morning, and the east was the one the bones owed the camp, and the camp owed the bones the taking; and the fire between them, taking the saying the way the fire takes everything that is given to it. The four took it, and the taking was the part of the night the record can keep clean.

Zahlia took it the way she takes everything — with her hands a little raised, the air around them going thin, and the thin was the one that was not belief.

I will keep Zahlia's taking in the record, because the record is owed Zahlia's taking. The Veil reads what the Veil reads, and the reading was Zahlia's part in the night: her hands went up a little, off her lap, and the off-her-lap was the Veil's part in the taking; the air around the hands went thin, and the thin was the Veil's part in the reading; and the thin was not belief, and the not-belief was the one the Veil owed the saying. She did not argue with it. I will say that in the plain voice, because the record is owed the not-arguing: Zahlia does not argue with a thing the Veil has read as not-true — she does not put the not-true into the camp, and the not-putting was the Veil's part in the camp. She kept it. The keeping was the first thing she owed me that I did not know how to spend. I will keep the not-knowing-how-to-spend in the record, because the record is owed the not-knowing: the archmage of the old world knew how to spend every debt the old world owed him, and the knowing was the old world's part in the archmage; the debt Zahlia owed me on that night was the first debt the new world put in my hands, and the first was the one I have not spent since. She kept the not-true the way she keeps a word, in the air, and the keeping-in-the-air was the Veil's part in the night, and the Veil owed the keeping to the camp.

That is the first lie I told in the new world.

I have kept it since. I will keep the keeping in the record, because the record is owed the keeping: the night was the night after the keeping began, and the keeping of the distance became the keeping of the lie, and the two keepings went into the fire the way the two keepings go into the fire — one at a time, and the one-at-a-time was the whole of the night's part in the camp. The five of us went to sleep around the fire, and the sleeping was the camp's part in the night; the fire burned low, and the low was the one the fire owed the dark; the kept place stayed empty by the hearth, back from the light, and the empty was the one the kept place owed the night. And the lie sat in the center of the camp, where the fire is, and the sitting was the one the lie owed the camp, and the camp owed the lie the keeping, and the keeping is the thing I will have to carry, and the carrying is the whole of the rest of the story. I will say that in the plain voice, because it is the one the record can keep to the end: the carrying is the whole of the rest of the story. The story is the one I have kept since the first page of it, and the page is the one this one is in, and this one is the first of the story's part in the lie, and the lie is the one the new world has kept for the camp, and the camp has kept it for the kept place, and the kept place has kept it for the one who is not here, and the three keepings are the whole of the night, and the night is the one the story has kept since the first page of it.