The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  Ogea slowly lowered his gaze to the people. He held the scroll aloft. The wind riffled its edges, threatening to tear the seal. But Ogea took the red wax in his bony hands and snapped it in two. The sound, faint and brittle, sent yet another shiver down Braethen’s back, and he muttered, softly so that others might not hear, “A seal once broken…”

  Ogea unrolled the vellum but held it aside. Without referring to it, he began to speak again, a quiet humility in his voice.

  “Good friends, I have read for the last time. Northsun has come again to the Land, and we are grateful for its light. We have hope, but it is naive if we sit idly and do nothing. There is a quiet darkness spreading. When its blight is complete enough, the power of the Will shall no longer be able to contain the Quiet. Forda I’Forza, body and spirit, earth and sky … will fail. The abandonment of the Great Fathers will be complete.… We will have proven that our growth did not matter; we will have shown that we hadn’t enough desire and fortitude to be great ourselves.”

  Ogea fell to his knees. He held the parchment before his face and nodded to himself. Then he backed onto the ladder and began to descend. Only four rungs down, the reader slipped, his scroll falling from his hands and cast about by eddies of wind along the side of the Fieldstone. The old man dangled for a moment and then lost his grip on the rung. He plummeted, his fall seeming to last unnaturally long. Into the mud he splashed, letting out a thick mewling sound as he hit the ground. Braethen pushed his way through hundreds of townsfolk to reach Ogea’s side. There, he turned his friend over and placed a hand on his chest to see if he still breathed.

  Braethen suddenly felt eyes upon him. The crowd had crept closer, but they were all Hollows folk. Turning toward the back of the Fieldstone, he spied a tall, dark man, his face cast in sorrow and determination. Braethen’s heart went cold when he saw the insignia at the man’s neck: three rings, a Sheason.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dangers of the Road

  The woman knelt at the side of the river, washing her face and hands and arms.

  The highwayman watched from behind a thicket of scrub oak.

  Leaf-shadow dappled the slow-moving water, the bulrushes, and the woman herself, who remained unaware that she was not alone. The low hum of the current cloaked his slow steps as his companions crouched in strategic positions downriver and across from her, in case she bolted.

  She surely hadn’t driven alone the team of horses and wagon that stood a hundred strides south. Somewhere close by, she had a man.

  He would arrive too late.

  Really, she should have known better. In the open places between the cities of men—with their garrisons and high outer walls—the world belonged to the man who would take the risk; the man who played his chances; the man who took the open road and sky above as his home and roof. For travelers in the places between, fair warning consisted of nothing more than a reflection in the water above you as you splashed a day’s grit from the creases around your eyes and mouth … in the moment before you tried to scream.

  The woman stood up fast, whirling, her lips parting to raise a cry of alarm.

  The highwayman put his boot into her stomach to steal her breath before it could carry her distress to another. She went down on one knee, looking up with the surprised, pleading eyes he’d grown so tired of seeing.

  Give me some real bit of anger instead!

  His companions closed in cautiously—a caged and frightened animal will lash out.

  “Now, before you start with any other ideas, let me tell you what is best for you,” the highwayman said. “Because your options are few. For sport, my fellows here would like as not take you for a ride, then drop you in the river for the fish. These lads aren’t delicate about anything, my good woman, so bear that in mind when you get your breath back and find your anger.”

  His companions smiled over his words, but the highwayman didn’t have much use for them, either, and gave them a flat look.

  The woman finally gasped a breath, her face pinched in pain and dread.

  “For my part, I’d spare you that indignity, since I can’t imagine the pleasure of a woman that is not freely given.” The highwayman smiled genuinely, then caught a sneer on the woman’s face. “But in exchange for my protection, you’ll come along with us and keep your protests quiet. Otherwise, you are gambling that wherever we’re going is worse than an early grave. And those are bad odds.”

  Deliberately, the woman stood, a steady defiance clear on her brow. “You think because my dress is worn I care less about virtue than my life? Is that what thieves on the open road believe?”

  The highwayman laughed aloud, but low.

  She went on, undaunted. “Any man with such a proposition can’t be trusted to keep his word.” She spat on him. “Kill me, then. Prove yourself the gentleman, save me from the itchy hands of your friends.”

  “Nah,” one of his companions said. “If we aren’t taking her with us, then let’s do with her what a man can, and take what’s on the wagon besides.” The man pointed off toward the woman’s camp.

  The highwayman turned a questioning look on her. “Your play, my lady. What price for your virtue today?”

  They stared at each other for several long moments. The years of toil and travel had given her salt, he had to admit that. The fact made him happier to have come upon her—the road had an indifferent beneficence if you spent enough time there.

  Then he caught an imperceptible crack in her resolve. Just a glint in the eye, as her mind showed her the scene that could play out on this dappled bank in the early evening sun. He’d won. But not before her full lungs brought a scream of help that shattered the relative calm, scattering birds to the air and long echoes down the surface of the river.

  A name. A name she cried out.

  He knew she couldn’t have been alone.

  Before his men could wrestle her down, the heavy, thundering feet of a rescuer pounded the earth in their direction.

  The highwayman nodded to the woman, and to himself, and took a position between his captive and the impending approach of this other. Resting a hand on his sword, he stood as still as a statue until the worried face of a man emerged from the trees on a dead run toward him. The man drew a pair of knives. Even from this distance, he could see that they weren’t weapons. They were tools of some trade. Deadly perhaps, and likely the man was skilled in their use. But not a fighter. Not truly a threat.

  He hoped he would not have to kill the man.

  The woman dropped to the ground behind the highwayman, dodging his companions and screeching into the long shadows. She kicked and rolled until finally they pounced on her, smothering her thrashing arms under their bulk.

  As the encroaching champion came near, the highwayman drew his sword, dropped to one knee, and placed the blade on the woman’s neck. “That’s far enough.”

  The other came to a skidding stop. “Leave her be! She’s done nothing to you.”

  “Ah, but you can’t really know that, can you?” the highwayman said, taking some sport of it.

  “Aye, I can. She’s not a combative soul, nor a thief.” The man spoke his insult slowly.

  “Hmmm. Well, let us get straight to it, then. I have invited this woman to join me. It is not a negotiable invitation. You’ll want to attempt her rescue, and that’s most noble. But mind you”—he fixed the man a stare—“resist that impulse. It will likely only get you both killed. I hope you’ll trust me on that; it’s not something you should gamble on.”

  Then a knowing, grateful expression touched the rescuer’s taut features. “You’re not going to kill her or you’d have done it already. And I don’t see the signs of a man with forceful loins.” He looked at the woman in a way that betrayed an intimacy the highwayman hadn’t yet seen. “So then let’s have a trade on it,” the man resumed. “I’ll take her place. Whatever need you have, let me fill it.” Emotion crept into the rescuer’s voice. “I won’t argue or resist.”

  The man dropped his
hands to his sides, a sign of good faith, waiting.

  The highwayman relaxed his own grip on his sword and stood, marveling at the reason and proposed sacrifice. It was going to be easy to manipulate this man, since clearly he loved the woman.

  But that could be dangerous, too. He’d have to play it just right.

  “A noble request, but I’m afraid I must decline. You have my word, though, that I bear her no mortal threat.” He signaled for his men to haul her to her feet.

  “Don’t do this,” the man replied, both a plea and edge in his tone.

  This is where it gets dangerous. Wonderful!

  “Take care, man.” The highwayman stepped forward.

  The other’s hands rose again, one knife swiveling about, tip back—a fighter’s grip. Maybe more than tools after all.

  Then he lunged, knives slicing through the air. The highwayman rolled left and came up, his sword just blocking another attack as he got to his feet. His men pulled the woman back as she thrashed against their clutch.

  “There’s still time. Let it go. If I kill you, you’ll have no chance to track us in hope of revenge, or, better still, saving your beloved.” He ducked as another knife slipped through the air near his face.

  “She would rather die, here, now, than go with you one league!” The man danced from one foot to the other.

  The highwayman sensed the truth in that. But he didn’t have time for this. He had pressing matters. This husband or lover needed to more clearly see his choices. “Would she rather watch you die before accompanying us up the road?” As if on cue, another of the highwayman’s men emerged with a bow at full draw on the rescuer.

  At that the man paused, his knife handles creaking beneath his iron grip. His arms trembled with suspended action, even as he shared a long look with the woman they’d claimed from the river’s edge. Tears began to stream down her face, silent, fearful, dignified tears. In response, her loved one’s face pinched in a rictus of disbelief and horror.

  “I will find you,” he whispered. “I will never stop.”

  “There. That’s sensible,” the highwayman commented. He had his men tie the man up. Then, as the failed rescuer watched, they drew the woman through another line of trees, hoisted her into a saddle, and rode east.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Quiet in the Hollows

  “Inside!” Hambley shouted, directing them to the kitchen door just twenty feet away. “Stay back, the rest of you! We can see to this. Take to your meals or homes, off now.” No one moved. “Go!” The gathering slowly broke up, hushed talk shared between husbands and wives and friends.

  Tahn, Sutter, and Braethen lifted Ogea and carried him into Hambley’s kitchen, past the ovens, and down a back hall to one of the sleeping rooms. With care, they eased him onto the bed, and Hambley drew back the curtain to allow in the watery light. Braethen sat on the mattress and gently placed his hands on the man’s neck and cheeks.

  “What can you do for him, Braethen?” Hambley asked.

  “Nothing.” The answer came from the doorway.

  Braethen looked up and saw again the Sheason, who stood now in the doorway. He’d often dreamed of the moment he’d meet a member of the order, imagined what he might say, how he might try to make an impression. All of those preparations fled him as he sat near a friend who might be taking his last breaths.

  Hambley redirected his question. “Vendanj, can you help?”

  “Shall we let Braethen answer?” Sutter said with an acerbic tone.

  Vendanj ignored Sutter and moved to the other side of the bed, taking one of Ogea’s hands in his own. “Hello, old man. I was here. I listened.”

  Though he’d only just met this Vendanj, the gentleness he heard now in the Sheason’s voice did not sound like it often belonged to the man, who wore an iron visage. Ogea remained unconscious, his face still streaked with mud. Vendanj laid his free hand on the reader’s forehead and spoke briefly in a tongue Braethen had never heard spoken. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he somehow felt the words the Sheason uttered. He regarded Vendanj with a look of disbelief. The Conceiver’s Tongue.

  Ogea’s eyes opened slightly, and he looked up at the man holding his hand. “Vendanj.” He coughed, swallowing hard against a spasm that threatened to steal his voice. “You should not have come. It is dangerous for you here.”

  “Quiet, friend.” Vendanj spoke in mild reproach. “Use your voice only for what matters.”

  The reader nodded appreciatively. “Bar’dyn. Two days outside the Hollows on the east road. I escaped … used a trick Artixan once showed me. Tell him that for me.” Ogea smiled, the expression turning sour on his face as the need to cough overcame him and he spat blood up onto Vendanj’s cheek and lips. The Sheason made no move to wipe away the blood.

  “I will tell him,” Vendanj assured the reader.

  “More. A Velle … with them. Careful, Vendanj.” Ogea trailed off, his eyes conveying warning. His chest rose and fell in shallow pants, a soft wheezing sound rising from his throat with each breath. He then shifted his head on the goose-feather pillow and looked at Braethen.

  “I don’t think we’ll be sharing that evenwine this year, my young friend. I’m sorry.”

  Braethen took Ogea’s other hand and shook his head at the apology.

  “Safeguard my scribblings,” the reader said, smiling weakly. “They are important to the right eyes.”

  Another wracking cough seized Ogea, the ripping sounds coming from deeper within his body this time. A fresh stream of blood coursed down his left cheek from the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips to wet them, leaving a bloodred coating like the paint the womenfolk wore at Harvest.

  “Is there more?” Vendanj asked.

  “Yes. You must remind them of the New Promise, because a passage has been opened again into the Bourne.”

  The room stood quite for a long moment. The revelation chilled them all.

  “Are you sure?” Vendanj asked finally, his voice strained.

  “The veil has not yet failed, but from the Shadow of the Hand the firstborn of the One bellow deep into the Bourne to call their lost brothers. Some are able to pass through. They are here in the Hollows for the same reason you come. But how they got into the Hollows, I know not. Something must be—” He tried to cough, but his chest only heaved, too hollow to force the sound.

  “Enough, friend. You have said all you will say.” Vendanj gently clenched the old man’s hand. Braethen still clasped the other.

  “No, the—”

  “Hush, my friend. Be still and remember.…”

  The old man did not protest. He turned his head toward the ceiling, his eyes growing distant, a vague smile playing on his reddened lips.

  Vendanj bowed, placing his forehead on the back of Ogea’s hand and holding it there. Braethen regarded the two men reverently. Sutter and Hambley looked perplexed, but Braethen bowed his head. A calm settled over the room, broken only by the whispering sound of the reader drawing air. It came softly, slowing.

  Sadness grew in Braethen’s breast, his heart simultaneously filling with pride for a man who had earned the respect of others for the eloquence and boldness of his words without ever lifting a weapon. He reflected on the friendship the old man had offered him; a friend who had never judged his dream of being a sodalist, but instead traded tales about the order with him. His heart also pounded with the fear of losing his one supporter, as though the dream would pass if Ogea were no longer around to help him believe.

  In those moments, Braethen also reflected on what it would mean to be a sodalist for real. And he knew suddenly a simple truth: Standing fast with a friend in his final moments, sharing whatever fear or pain or relief would come, was the measure of his devotion.

  And so he held his friend’s hand. And waited.

  Sometime later, Ogea stopped breathing.

  Vendanj looked up and brushed a gentle palm over the old man’s open eyes, drawing down the lids. He gently placed the man’s hand on the
bed, then stood. His body formed a silhouette against the window behind him, nearly blackening the room.

  He turned and spoke quietly. “The time has come for us to finish our talk, Tahn, but not here. Hambley, can we take dinner somewhere in private?”

  Hambley still stared at Ogea. “He’s really dead, isn’t he? And he fell from my ladder.”

  “He was dead before he entered the Hollows,” Vendanj assured Hambley. “There is no time to grieve for him now. We must speak in secret.”

  The innkeeper drew in a bracing breath. “We can use the townsmen’s chamber.”

  “Well enough,” Vendanj replied.

  Hambley opened the door and disappeared to make his preparations. Vendanj went directly to Tahn and reached down to take the sword they’d retrieved from Geddy’s smithy. He gave it a brief look, then motioned them into the hall. The large man brushed past Sutter and Tahn, his cloak stirring an indoor breeze as he went. They followed, but Braethen remained kneeling at the side of the bed, staring at the pallid face of the reader. After a moment, he reached out and gently touched Ogea’s kind face. He whispered, “By Will and Sky, thank you for your belief in me.”

  * * *

  Tahn strode down the hall and through a back door into the townsmen’s chamber. The hearth, a fire blazing within, dominated the inner wall. Muted voices could be heard from the common room, where hushed talk conjectured on the condition of the reader. The windows admitted watery light from the skies without, leaving the private room in half shadow. Hambley drew a flame from the fire onto the end of a small dried reed, and returned to the wooden table in the center of the room. A brass fixture there held ten candles in a wide oval pattern. Hambley lit them all and extinguished the reed.

  “I will fetch some bread and bitter.” He bustled through the door and was gone.

  Each of them stood behind one of the wide, high-backed chairs, as though sitting committed them to something they were uncertain they wanted to join. Vendanj sat and Sutter looked over at Tahn, who shrugged and sat down. Sutter and Braethen followed.