Amazing story, again taking place in the Lowlands, with Dutch names and references, in a sort of fantastic medieval time.
An Oracle in a monastery. A band of thieves delivering a new one...
Lastly, there had been Scriven, who proved to be a grievous mistake. He had come highly recommended for his skill as a tracker and a bowman. Follett had taken him without suspecting that he was an avid practitioner of the worst form of blasphemy that the old warrior could image, and one that he would never tolerate in his company. But nobody saw Scriven's demise coming, especially the man himself. Better that such errors are exposed early before they run inward and slyly contaminate the pack. Scriven had been found spying on the other men and making written copies of their confessional Steepings. He had been caught listening and scribing Follett's own gnarled words. Pearlbinder grabbed him and held him against a tree by his long hair. He pushed his sharp knife against the man's jugular vein, allowing just enough space for his larynx to work and for him to attempt to talk his way out of his fate. He was midway through when Follett unsheathed his lance and pushed three feet of it through Scriven's abdomen. Written words had condemned Follett before. Words written by others that he could not read. Ink keys that had locked him in a Spanish cell for three years. He had always distrusted written words, and now he despised them.
So Follett explained. "Writing is the shame of man. It dilutes the guts of meaning. If thou be not man enough to hold great learning and the saying of events in your memory, then thou should not attempt to keep them imprisoned. The world weas turned by scrolls and books. The making of those brikcs of paper even contaminated the tower of language itself, making it less than a woodpile or an old maid's collection of rags. Words are power, and writing is only a pissed shadow."
