The Unremembered: Book One of The Vault of Heaven

by Peter Orullian

  Vendanj came to a larger cross street where squares of yellow were cast on the ground from windows all along the street. Far off, illuminated against the night stood a grand structure with several ascending planes and a half-dozen parapets. Other buildings rose magnificently, topped by flaming torches that winked like distant light-flies, but none shone so grand or tall.

  Jole abruptly halted, and Tahn lurched. “Watch where you’re going,” Mira scolded. The others had stopped before a livery, and Mira had grasped Jole’s harness to pull him about.

  “Sorry, I’ve just never seen—”

  “Watch what you say, Tahn,” Mira said in a low voice. “Your observations reveal much about you to others.”

  A wide door drew back and a man with a thick, full beard ushered them in. No sooner had Braethen entered than the man slammed the door shut and threw the crossbar.

  “Ah, Bean, good to see you,” the man said.

  His words issued from thick lips buried in a profusion of hair. Tahn had no idea to whom he could be talking.

  “And you, Milear,” Vendanj said, dismounting.

  Sutter’s head whipped about as if he’d been slapped, and he and Tahn mouthed the word simultaneously: Bean?

  “Darling girl, what of you? Are you well?”

  Mira slid from her saddle. “Much better seeing a familiar face, Milear.”

  The man wiped his hands on his leather apron and extended his arms to her. Mira embraced him, and he patted her on the back as he might a daughter.

  Then he released her and pointed at Vendanj. “You, too, Bean, I’ve no mind to forsake you a squeeze.” A sliver of a smile touched Vendanj’s lips, and he took the shorter man’s invitation. Milear patted Vendanj’s back in the same manner.

  Sutter’s mouth fell agape. He and Tahn shared a look and with wide eyes again mouthed simultaneously to each other, Bean.

  The rest of them dismounted as Milear released the renderer and stood back, appraising them all. “So this is what lives in the Hollows. Fine young people, Bean, I can see it in their jaws. Sturdy. Resolute.”

  “But say it softly, old friend. We are not yet known in the city,” Vendanj said.

  “Bean, you cannot come to Myrr but that you are known. Strangers, they will say, but they will say it. You cannot stay here long.”

  “A day is all,” the Sheason answered.

  The man looked up into the rafters of the livery, his eyes distant in what Tahn recognized as recollection. Then his eyes focused and he looked back to Vendanj. “Ayeah, I’m done now. No more will I speak on it.” He brushed his hands again on his leather apron and set about stabling their horses. While he did, Mira checked her weapons and spoke in low tones with Vendanj.

  Nearer the door, Braethen had retrieved a book from his saddlebag and sat on a bale reading from its pages. Wendra, too, sat, and rubbed her ankles.

  Sutter approached Tahn. “How about you, old Bean, let’s have a hug.”

  Tahn smiled. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. But I don’t think I’d mention it to him.”

  Sutter snickered. “Really, I was thinking of asking Vendanj for a hug. Anyway, we’ve got places to go, right? Did you see that palace? I’ve never seen anything like it. I thought the Fieldstone was big. Will and Sky, Tahn, this is a root-digger’s dream.”

  “Maybe,” Tahn said, “but you won’t be going anywhere. You heard Vendanj, and even if you’ve got dirt in your ears, you saw the fellows in the alleys we came through. They’d roast you like a spring pig.”

  “Listen, Woodchuck, I didn’t come all this way to sit in a room and talk.” Sutter flicked Tahn’s chest with his finger. “And neither did you.”

  “A man with his hands in the dirt is a grounded man,” Tahn said, trotting out the old taunt. “All right.”

  A winning grin spread on Sutter’s face. “You’ve got clay in your blood, Woodchuck. What stories we will have to tell.”

  A soft intake of breath, just audible from where they were, interrupted them; no one else heard the sound. Tahn looked toward the noise and saw the sodalist look up from his book, his brow deeply furrowed. Slowly, he shifted to look at Wendra, who was rubbing her calves. Tahn followed Braethen’s eyes to his sister, then looked back at the sodalist, who shook his head so slightly that it might not have been a voluntary movement. Braethen closed his book and rubbed the binding thoughtfully with his palm.

  Milear finished his task and came back to the center of the stable. “You folks gather round.” He waved them toward him. Vendanj and Mira concluded their quiet conversation and came close to Milear. “You’ll want to stay at the Granite Stone tonight. It’s just two streets north of here. A friend of mine is the proprietor and he won’t get overly curious about you. I’ll send you with a horseshoe nail. He’ll understand. People are wary these days, ever since the League established a permanent contingent here. Cursed fools, haven’t the sense of a quarry mule. Ah, have done with that. Listen, the man’s name is Ulee, his family is down out of Ir-Caul. A tighter lip there never was.”

  “Is there a rear entrance?” Mira asked.

  “Every inn in Myrr has a rear entrance, but using it would be more suspicious than walking in the front door. The straw drift you would no doubt pass in the byways would try to sell the information, likely as not to the League, who are going to know you’re here sooner or later anyway. Later is always better with the League.”

  “Are they making charges?” Braethen interrupted.

  “Two just today. A man was seen neglecting to bow to the hat of Highborn Crolsus and was charged with sedition. The other had something to do with a tracker who came through Mal’Tara and was requesting an audience with Crolsus, talking about Bar’dyn legions as far south as Mal’Sent.” Milear appraised Mira and Vendanj as he spoke. Tahn saw no visible change in either the Sheason or the Far, but Milear nodded. “Will and Sky,” he said softly.

  The stableman turned to Braethen. “And hide that blazon you wear, sodalist. It is not an emblem to the League’s liking. Here.” Milear took an iron nail from a pouch in his leather apron and handed it to Vendanj. “Now take your rest. We can talk tomorrow if you’d like.”

  “Thank you, Milear,” Vendanj said. The Sheason handed the livery owner something wrapped in a green cloth and strode directly to the door.

  “Solace be yours, my friends,” Milear said, looking at Tahn and his companions. Mira put a hand on Milear’s shoulder as she passed. The others quickly followed the renderer out of the livery into the street.

  Vendanj strode without looking to either side as he led them north. The smell of wet straw commingled with a tinge of rot from the mud.

  The Granite Stone stood five stories of magnificent granite. The face of the building was fluted at wide intervals, giving it an oddly striped look. A circular cascade of steps rose from the muddy, straw-covered street to a set of double doors. Passing wagon wheels and hooves had splashed mud three feet high upon the walls.

  “Remove your hoods,” Vendanj said. “Nothing will inspire someone to look more than concealing what you don’t wish seen. Wear the expression of weary travelers.”

  That would be no problem for any of them.

  The renderer pushed open the left-hand door and passed inside. Tahn took a deep breath and followed close behind Mira.

  Stone partitions the height of a man’s waist divided the room into at least twenty smaller sections. Two of the areas housed long tables suited for feasts. To the right, the conversation became quieter where men and women sat nearer the outer wall. Two hallways at the back of the great room were crowded with serving matrons and youths carrying plates of food. And on the far left, an area designated for contests was cleared, chalk lines drawn upon the floor and walls.

  Vendanj did not pause, but found a table to the right that would seat them all. When everyone had taken a seat, a portly woman promptly appeared.

  “Rooms or food?” she barked. She held one fleshy fist on her waist and a dirty rag in her
other hand.

  “Both,” Vendanj said without looking at the woman. Tahn realized Vendanj had addressed the woman without the use of the honorific “Anais.” “And we need to speak to Ulee.”

  “Ulee’s busy and we’re out of lamb.” She began wiping the table in front of Vendanj, her ample bosom barely contained in the deep, square-cut bodice.

  “He will see us,” Vendanj said. His voice filled with violence at the hint of contradiction.

  “Fine, I’ll tell him,” she whined. “Now what will you have?”

  “Steer and root for all, and one bottle of evenwine.”

  The woman raised her chin in contempt and ambled away to the kitchen.

  Tahn surveyed the room. Great carpets hung upon the walls, some with symmetrical designs rendered in cobalt blue and crimson. A small dais in the far right corner held stools; instruments leaned against the wall. Near them, two men and two women dressed in bright yellow and scarlet overdresses chattered and laughed, obviously the hall’s entertainment.

  At the table, little was said. Mira spoke occasionally to Vendanj, and Braethen had again taken to his book. Sutter’s neck craned at nearly impossible angles to see all that the hall had to offer. Wendra’s eyes had shut; she looked close to sleep.

  A moment later, a man with deep auburn hair and wide shoulders wound his way from the kitchen toward them. He wore a loose white shirt with two thin blue stripes across the chest. His rolled-up sleeves revealed arms thick with hair. He had a day’s growth of beard and deep-set eyes. He walked casually, nodding hellos as he came. Coming at last to them, he hunkered down beside Vendanj.

  “Evening, friends. What can be done for you?”

  “Hello. You are Ulee?” Vendanj asked.

  “Since the narrow way into the land,” he said, smiling.

  As Vendanj started to speak, four men in deep russet cloaks bearing the sigil of the League of Civility appeared around the table. They carried spears and wore swords, as well.

  “Gentlemen,” Vendanj said, “what can I do for you?”

  “You will come with us,” the tallest replied. He wore a yellow cord draped over his left shoulder. “We have some questions for you.”

  As they spoke, the four scops in the corner donned large masks and began to play out a light, folliet skit.

  “I’ve not yet eaten; can this wait until tomorrow? I’m not going anywhere.”

  The four leaguemen laughed. “You’ll forgive us. We’ve heard your excuse far too many times.” Then their captain’s voice drew taut. “Now.”

  The entertainment rose into a grand song, all four scops linking arms and wailing into the high rafters of the common hall.

  Tahn could see Mira and Braethen rising. Around them, the crowd had begun to sing with the scops, making it hard to hear. But it all felt like the precipice of madness and violence.

  “Under what authority?” Vendanj challenged.

  The man wearing the yellow cord brought a hard fist, wearing iron knuckles, against the Sheason’s jaw. “Have you any more questions?”

  Before Mira or Braethen could do anything, Vendanj held up his hand to stay them. He shook his head and gathered his composure. Tahn recognized the restraint the Sheason had just exercised. This was not the place for confrontation.

  Vendanj then took Ulee’s hand in farewell. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, passing the horseshoe nail to the innkeeper.

  He then turned to Mira, speaking under the sound of the crowd’s adulation for its circus. “Do not leave them.” He looked squarely at Tahn. “I will not be more than a day. If I am not back, leave at nightfall tomorrow, regardless.” He gave Mira a strong, reassuring look. “You know I will be well. Do not leave them,” he reiterated.

  As a chorus of cheers and cups pounding on the tables applauded the performance, serving matrons rushed into the hall with bottles, where patrons were quick to want another drink. And Vendanj was ushered out under guard of the League.

  * * *

  Later in the night, when the others had fallen asleep in their rooms after hushed talk of Vendanj, Wendra crept back to the common room.

  The drinkers and revelers were mostly gone. A few late suppers were being taken in corners by people whose occupations made late their time to eat. They remained attended by one serving woman, a hot but lower fire, and the scops who she’d come to see.

  Wendra took a seat against one wall and listened. The songs these musicians played were unlike any she’d heard in the Hollows. When they were bright they were boisterous; when proud, courageous; and when sad, they were piteous and plaintive. Here, it seemed, the music became more than a performance by the singer, it grew into an accusation or challenge. There was boldness in it that she hadn’t heard before. Even through the troubles and madness of this night and everything since fleeing the Hollows—and before, back as far as her rape—Wendra was entranced by this new sound and knew she must seize upon it in some way.

  It made her think of where the simple, dark melodies she’d found when curled onto a cabin floor a few days ago might lead.

  When the night at last found its end for the common room, the scops began to pack their instruments to leave. Wendra slid from her chair with questions she hoped they could answer.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very gifted. I enjoyed listening to you very much.”

  The woman, still packing, looked over her shoulder at Wendra as her male counterpart turned to receive his accolades.

  “You’re most welcome, my young woman. Was there a particular song you liked?” He smiled and bowed in thanks for her praise.

  His companion shook her head without turning again.

  Wendra decided her answers would come from this gentleman. “The songs of loss. There was something strong and comforting about them. I don’t know. It seemed—”

  “They didn’t simply accept the pain, but demanded answers and retribution,” he finished for her.

  “Yes,” Wendra said. “The music seemed to provide relief of a kind by not simply wallowing in grief and resentment.”

  “You are an astute listener. Are you by chance a musician yourself?” The man looked Wendra over from top to bottom.

  She understood then his designs, her stomach roiling at the thought. Thankfully, the woman chimed in, finally turning to join the conversation. “If you are, don’t waste any more breath on him,” she said. “You’ll want to talk to the composer, which would be me.”

  The woman hefted an instrument case over her shoulder and came to stand beside her companion. “He’s quick to accept the credit, however he can get it.” She gave him a look of amused disgust. “But he’s never around to help create the music we earn that credit by. What’s your name, my young lady?”

  “Wendra. And yours?”

  “I am Solaena. This is Chrastof. He’s got packing to do. Why don’t you and I sit so I can rest my feet, wet my lips, and I can give you the advice my father never gave me.” She waved a hand at the serving woman, who showed attentive but weary eyes and went to get something from the kitchen.

  Solaena and Wendra sat together, and shortly a tall glass of steaming tea was set before Solaena. She sipped, the warmth seeming to ease her features, and relaxed into her chair.

  “You find some fascination with playing songs to a crowd like this,” Solaena said. “Well, let me tell you. If you can find another way to earn a coin, do it. Most times we aren’t paid, and patrons of a common room like this often think we’re paid to do more than entertain them, if you understand me. Keep your music, my girl, but don’t make it your life’s path.”

  Wendra nodded appreciatively. But her questions were not professional. “How do you make them? The songs. How do you make them feel like anguish, not for its own sake but to justify revenge.”

  The scop smiled. “I see. Well, that’s just writing from my own heart’s desire. I guess so late in the night it’s tolerable to admit that I don’t believe in the same things I did when I was your age. And mayb
e because I don’t, I write about them in my songs to remind me of a time when I did. What I mean is, the songs are a place where I can give voice to my inmost wishes, even if the world around me doesn’t hearken to my words. Do you understand?”

  “I believe so. But the world does hear you. The people in the room. Me.”

  A grateful smile touched Solaena’s lips. “You’re a dear heart, my girl. Thank you. And because of your gracious praise, I’ll tell you the trick of it—as I think that’s what you’d like to know.” She leaned over her tea, and spoke in a sincere tone. “When you make your sad song, you mustn’t be afraid to go to the bottom of your own pain. Any power in those tunes comes from the well of your own torment, and it’s from there that the demand for relief will come. Anything else is simply a lament, and personally, I don’t see a lot of point to that.”

  Wendra had an epiphany at the scop’s words, there in the dark hours of night in an empty common room that reeked of bitter.

  “And one more thing besides,” Solaena added. “Those songs don’t always need to be brayed out. We do it because these are noisy places.” She looked around the room. “But what I’m sharing with you here can come with the same power and meaning in a lullaby. If you doubt it, listen to a mother singing the hope of her heart for a child born into a dangerous world.”

  Wendra stared back at the woman, loss and revelations warring in her soul. The late-night instruction on songs to be sung with sadness and authority would steal her sleep that night and for many nights to come, because the woman’s words struck Wendra’s deepest fear and regret. Her own recent melodies she now realized were, at least in part, lullabies for a child who would never hear them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Subtleties

  Tahn awoke to the smell of fried pig steak and root. A narrow shaft of light streamed through the window. Beside it, Braethen sat reading, looking like he’d been awake all night. Sutter already had his trousers on and a wild look in his eye.