She stopped there. Sazed frowned, reading the words again. Kwaan’s last testimony—the rubbing Sazed had taken at the Conventical of Seran—had proven useful in more than one way. It had provided a key.
It wasn’t until years later that I became convinced that he was the Hero of Ages, Kwaan had written. Hero of Ages: the one called Rabzeen in Khlennium, the Anamnesor. …
The rubbing was a means of translation—not between languages, but between synonyms. It made sense that there would be other names for the Hero of Ages; a figure so important, so surrounded by lore, would have many titles. Yet, so much had been lost from those days. The Rabzeen and the Anamnesor were both mythological figures vaguely familiar to Sazed—but they were only two among hosts. Until the discovery of the rubbing, there had been no way to connect their names to the Hero of Ages.
Now Tindwyl and he could search their metalminds with open eyes. Perhaps, in the past, Sazed had read this very passage from Helenntion’s biography; he had at least skimmed many of the older records, searching for religious references. Yet, he would never have been able to realize that the passage was referring to the Hero of Ages, a figure from Terris lore that the Khlenni people had renamed into their own tongue.
“Yes …” he said slowly. “This is good, Tindwyl. Very good.” He reached over, laying his hand on hers.
“Perhaps,” she said, “though it tells us nothing new.”
“Ah, but the wording might be important, I think,” Sazed said. “Religions are often very careful with their writings.”
“Especially prophecies,” Tindwyl said, frowning just a bit. She was not fond of anything that smacked of superstition or soothsaying.
“I would have thought,” Sazed noted, “that you would no longer have this prejudice, considering our current enterprise.”
“I gather information, Sazed,” she said. “Because of what it says of people, and because of what the past can teach us. However, there is a reason I took to studying history as opposed to theology. I don’t approve of perpetuating lies.”
“Is that what you think I do when I teach of religions?” he asked in amusement.
Tindwyl looked toward him. “A bit,” she admitted. “How can you teach the people to look toward the gods of the dead, Sazed? Those religions did their people little good, and their prophecies are now dust.”
“Religions are an expression of hope,” Sazed said. “That hope gives people strength.”
“Then you don’t believe?” Tindwyl asked. “You just give the people something to trust, something to delude themselves?”
“I would not call it so.”
“Then you think the gods you teach of do exist?”
“I … think that they deserved to be remembered.”
“And their prophecies?” Tindwyl said. “I see scholarly value in what we do—the bringing to light of facts from the past could give us information about our current problems. Yet, this soothsaying for the future is, at its core, foolishness.”
“I would not say that,” Sazed said. “Religions are promises—promises that there is something watching over us, guiding us. Prophecies, therefore, are natural extensions of the hopes and desires of the people. Not foolishness at all.”
“So, your interest is purely academic?” Tindwyl said.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Tindwyl studied him, watching his eyes. She frowned slowly. “You believe it, don’t you?” she asked. “You believe that this girl is the Hero of Ages.”
“I have not yet decided,” Sazed said.
“How can you even consider such a thing, Sazed?” Tindwyl asked. “Don’t you see? Hope is a good thing—a wonderful thing—but you must have hope in something appropriate. If you perpetuate the dreams of the past, then you stifle your own dreams of the future.”
“What if the past dreams are worthy of being remembered?”
Tindwyl shook her head. “Look at the odds, Sazed. What are the chances we would end up where we are, studying this rubbing, in the very same household as the Hero of Ages?”
“Odds are irrelevant when a foretelling is involved.”
Tindwyl closed her eyes. “Sazed … I think religion is a good thing, and belief is a good thing, but it is foolishness to look for guidance in a few vague phrases. Look at what happened last time someone assumed they had found this Hero. The Lord Ruler, the Final Empire, was the result.”
“Still, I will hope. If you did not believe the prophecies, then why work so hard to discover information about the Deepness and the Hero?”
“It’s simple,” Tindwyl said. “We are obviously facing a danger that has come before—a recurring problem, like a plague that plays itself out, only to return again centuries later. The ancient people knew of this danger, and had information about it. That information, naturally, broke down and became legends, prophecies, and even religions. There will be, then, clues to our situation hidden in the past. This is not a matter of soothsaying, but of research.”
Sazed lay his hand on hers. “I think, perhaps, that this is something we cannot agree upon. Come, let us return to our studies. We must use the time we have left.”
“We should be all right,” Tindwyl said, sighing and reaching to tuck a bit of hair back into her bun. “Apparently, your Hero scared off Lord Cett last night. The maid who brought breakfast was speaking of it.”
“I know of the event,” Sazed said.
“Then things are growing better for Luthadel.”
“Yes,” Sazed said. “Perhaps.”
She frowned. “You seem hesitant.”
“I do not know,” he said, glancing down. “I do not feel that Cett’s departure is a good thing, Tindwyl. Something is very wrong. We need to be finished with these studies.”
Tindwyl cocked her head. “How soon?”
“We should try to be done tonight, I think,” Sazed said, glancing toward the pile of unbound sheets they had stacked on the table. That stack contained all the notes, ideas, and connections that they’d made during their furious bout of study. It was a book, of sorts—a guidebook that told of the Hero of Ages and the Deepness. It was a good document—incredible, even, considering the time they’d been given. It was not comprehensive. It was, however, probably the most important thing he’d ever written.
Even if he wasn’t certain why.
“Sazed?” Tindwyl asked, frowning. “What is this?” She reached to the stack of papers, pulling out a sheet that was slightly askew. As she held it up, Sazed was shocked to see that a chunk from the bottom right corner had been torn off.
“Did you do this?” she asked.
“No,” Sazed said. He accepted the paper. It was one of the transcriptions of the rubbing; the tear had removed the last sentence or so. There was no sign of the missing piece.
Sazed looked up, meeting Tindwyl’s confused gaze. She turned, shuffling through a stack of papers to the side. She pulled out another copy of the transcription and held it up.
Sazed felt a chill. The corner was missing.
“I referenced this yesterday,” Tindwyl said quietly. “I haven’t left the room save for a few minutes since then, and you were always here.”