My father was a scribe, and his father before him, all the way back to the days before the Dark Lord. When our grim master came, he forced our letters and our learning underground; this was literally, as his spies patrolled the air and land. I learned how to read and write in a damp crevice my father carved out with his own hands, after a hard day of farm labor.
We were all farmers then, and fools or ignorant on top of that. That was the Dark Lord’s doing, to keep us subject to him. I worked as hard to hide my learning as I did to acquire it. All the same, it was hard for a bright boy to cover his light with a basket. There was a close encounter once when I called the bullheaded miller’s son on his “obstinate insolence.” I barely covered with “Aw shucks, thimblehead.”
Not even my wife knew of my birthright, nor the secret history I kept in a cave. I would teach my son of his legacy, however, my wife’s womb was as barren as our hopes. I was convinced the small rebellion of keeping a secret history would die with me.
To read the rest, go to this page.